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https://archive.org/details/songsofirelandcoOOIove 


THE 

SONGS  OF  IRELAND 

CONTAINING 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS;  CONVIVIAL,  COMIC,  MORAL, 
SENTIMENTAL,  SATIRICAL,  PATRIOTIC,  HISTORICAL, 
MILITARY,  POLITICAL,  AND  MISCELLANEOUS 
SONGS. 


EDITED  AND  ANNOTATED 


BY  SAMUEL  LOVER,^ 

AUTHOR  OP  “HANDY  ANDY,”  “RORY  O’MORE,”  “ LEGENDS  AND  STORIES  OP 
IRELAND,”  ETC. 


PROFUSELY  ILLUSTRATED  WITH  ENGRAVINGS 

DESIGNED  BY  PHIZ  AND  IIARERISON  WEIR, 
AND  ENGRAVED  BY  DALZIEL. 


NEW  YORK : 

DICK  & FIZGERALD,  PUBLISHERS, 

18  ANN  STREET. 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 


ri\  f 57(4 
. R & b 


PREFACE. 


A general  collection  of  Irish  Lyrics,  carefully  selected, 
affording  the  best  specimens  of  various  authors,  and  in  various 
styles,  has  been  a long-existing  want  in  the  library,  and  that  it 
has  been  so,  is  presumptive  evidence  cf  the  task  of  producing 
such  a work  being  difficult. 

I felt  this  when  first  invited  to  become  Editor  of  such  a 
collection,  and  it  was  only  repeated  requests,  after  some  lapse 
of  time,  and  arguments  which  my  love  of  country  could  not 
resist,  that  overcame  my  reluctance  to  engage  in  editorial  duty 
— a duty  quite  new  to  me — and  if  I have  failed  in  it,  I can 
plead  in  extenuation  that  I did  not  rush  into  the  difficulty  pre- 
sumptuously ; and  I can  add,  with  equal  truth,  that  having  un- 
dertaken what  the  judgment  of  others  entrusted  me  with,  I have 
made  every  endeavour  to  discharge  the  onerous  duties  of  my 
post  becomingly.  Having  said  thus  much  in  mitigation  of  any 
editorial  errors  whereof  I may  be  guilty,  I will  offer  a few  re- 
marks upon  the  subject-matter  of  this  book. 

Two  volumes  of  national  songs  have,  at  short  intervals,  pre- 
ceded this — a book  of  English  and  a book  of  Scotch  songs,  and 
with  these  this  volume  must  come  into  immediate  comparison. 
That  comparison,  I think,  must  prove  singularly  honourable  to 
Ireland,  if  the  disadvantageous  circumstances  be  considered 
under  which  she  appears  in  literary  competition  with  the  other 
portions  of  the  united  kingdom:  — to  those  whose  judgment 
may  not  award  her  a high  place,  the  consideration  I solicit  will 
afford  sufficient  cause  for  the  supposed  inferiority,  while,  if  the 

% 


iv 


PREFACE. 


judgment  be  on  the  other  hand,  it  will  conduce  the  more  to  her 
honour.  I will  ask  it,  then,  to  be  remembered,  going  no  further 
back  than  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  that  England,  in  the  fulness  of 
prosperity,  had  her  Shakspeare,  Spenser,  Sidney,  Bacon,  and 
many  others,  great  in  letters  ; while  in  Ireland,  at  the  same 
time,  the  English  language  was  a stranger-tongue  outside  the 
pale,  the  country  yet  unconquered,  and  undergoing  the  horrors 
of  war.  At  this  very  period,  Spenser,  an  eye-witness  of  those 
horrors,  deprecating  the  charge  of  inefficiency  made  against 
the  English  clergy  in  Ireland,  uses  these  memorable  words — 
“It  is  ill  time  to  preach  among  swords .”  If  it  was  an  ill  time 
to  preach,  it  was  also  an  ill  time  for  literary  culture,  and  a 
sufficient  reason  why  Ireland  cannot  be  expected  to  com- 
pete with  England  in  literary  honours.  So  far  from  expecting 
this,  we  may  rather  wonder  that  Ireland,  in  an  interim  far  from 
peaceful,  should  have  done  so  much,  more  particularly  in  a 
language  which  she  had  yet  to  learn. 

With  respect  to  Scotland,  her  literature,  in  general,  has  done 
her  the  highest  honour;  as  for  her  songs,  a large  amount  are 
of  the  first  mark ; but  Scotland  has  been  more  favourably  cir- 
cumstanced for  literary  pursuits  than  Ireland.  She  has  not 
suffered  the'  penalties  of  political  strife  so  heavily,  nor  so 
recently ; she  has  not  been  shaken  by  internal  convulsion  for 
the  last  century ; while  in  Ireland,  within  about  half  the  period, 
raged  a rebellion  that  drenched  her  in  blood,  since  which  she 
has  had  many  a political  throe : in  fact,  it  is  not  quite  thirty 
years  since  that  large  question,  Catholic  Emancipation,  which 
kept  her  so  long  disturbed,  was  settled.  Such  a state  of  things 
made  fiery  orators,  and  produced  the  fierce  outpouring  of 
political  invective  in  prose  and  verse,  mingled  with  the  wild 
wail  of  national  grief,  or  the  sudden  burst  of  pent-up  gall  that 
sense  of  wrong  and  hope  deferred  engender;  but,  for  the 
sweeter  flowers  of  poesy,  there  was  small  chance  of  their  spring- 


TREFACE. 


V 


ing  in  so  uncongenial  a soil ; and  even  in  the  vindicative  verse 
of  that  time  of  strife  there  was  not  much  merit ; the  shafts 
that  flew  fast  and  thick,  from  both  sides,  were  unpolished : — 
hut  that  mattered  not; — they  were  meant  less  to  dazzle  than  to 
wound. 

It  was  not  until  1807  that  the  lyric  muse  of  Ireland  might 
spread  her  wing  in  a somewhat  calmer  atmosphere  ; and  sing  of 
gentler  themes ; and  then  appeared  that  work,  not  only  the 
crowning  wreath  of  its  author,  but  among  the  glories  of  the  land 
that  gave  him  birth — I need  scarcely  say  I mean  “ Moore’s  Irish 
Melodies.’’  To  the  finest  national  music  in  the  world  he  wrote 
the  finest  lyrics  ; and  if  Ireland  never  produced,  nor  should 
ever  produce,  another  lyric  poet,  sufficient  for  her  glory  is  the 
name  of  Thomas  Moore. 

Why,  then,  fear  to  meet  any  poetic  rivals  in  the  field  ? Why 
the  deprecatory  tone  in  which  I commence  my  preface  ? Be- 
cause the  songs  of  Moore  are  not  at  my  command.  If  they 
were,  such  a book  of  the  collected  lyrics  of  Ireland  might  be 
made  as  could  scarcely  be  matched, — certainly  not  excelled, — 
but  the  strictness  with  which  the  proprietors  of  Moore’s  works 
guard  the  copyright — a strictness  that  cannot  in  the  least  be 
blamed  however  much  it  may  be  lamented  in  the  present  case — 
forbids  me  the  use  of  those  exquisite  lyrics ; and  yet,  even 
without  these,  I hope  this  volume  will  be  considered  honourable 
to  the  lyric  genius  of  Ireland.  How  much  would  not  a collec- 
tion of  Scottish  Songs  suffer,  wanting  the  lays  of  Burns  : what, 
then,  must  not  an  Irish  collection  lose  in  wanting  Moore’s  ? 
Ireland  thus  competes  with  England  and  Scotland  at  the 
greatest  disadvantage : — her  battle  is  like  that  of  the  Greeks 
without  Achilles. 

As  to  the  arrangement  of  the  following  collection,  I felt 
bound  to  follow  that  of  the  two  preceding  volumes  in  the  series, 
which  classes  the  songs  under  different  heads,  and  this  created 


VI 


PREFACE. 


a difficulty  in  my  editorial  task,  though  no  such  difficulty 
existed  in  compiling  the  former  volumes,  with  ample  stores  to 
select  from  ; but  even  this  difficulty  in  my  “ labour  of  love’1 — 
(for  such  the  editing  of  this  book  became,  after  my  being  some 
time  engaged  in  it) — had  its  reward;  for,  in  distributing  the 
contents  into  sections,  I found  a remarkable  and  rather  interest- 
ing coincidence  between  the  Scottish  Songs  and  the  Irish,  in 
three  particulars, — namely : that  while  in  the  Book  of  English 
Songs  there  are  distinct  sections  for  pastoral  and  rural,  sea,  and 
sporting  songs,  there  are  no  such  sections  in  the  Book  of  Scottish 
Songs;  nor  in  this  did  such  a section  become  necessary.  So 
remarkable  a coincidence  suggested  some  mental  inquiry  as  to 
the  cause  ; for,  Scotland  and  Ireland  being  both  pastoral  coun- 
tries, why  this  absence  of  pastoral  songs  ? I then  found  that 
many  of  the  pastoral  songs  of  England  arose  out  of  a fashion 
that  sprung  up,  at  one  period  in  that  country,  in  Literature  and 
in  the  Fine  Arts,  to  affect  the  rural ; — when  city  gallants  made 
love  under  the  name  of  Corydon  and  Amintor  to  their  Sylvias 
and  Daphnes  ; kings  and  queens  were  represented  on  canvass  as 
Endymions  and  Dianas;  while  dukes  and  duchesses  took  the 
humbler  forms  of  shepherds  and  shepherdesses.  This  was 
unreal  ruralism,  whereas  the  pastoral  feeling  of  both  Scotland 
and  Ireland  was  genuine,  and  is  manifested  not  ostentatiously, 
but  accidentally  and  naturally,  as  may  befit  or  illustrate 
the  subject  of  the  lyric ; and,  as  regards  the  Songs  of  Ire- 
land, it  may  be  observed  that  mere  allusion  is  often  made 
to  pastoral  pursuits ; and  that  images  derived  from  nature 
are  more  frequent  in  the  songs  translated  from  the  native 
tongue. 

Why  Sporting  Songs  do  not  so  much  abound  in  Scottish  and 
Irish  composition  was  not  so  easily  accounted  for,  as  the  Celts 
of  old  passionately  loved  the  chase  — a love  as  passionately 
inherited  by  their  descendants ; and  yet  we  do  not  find  the 


PREFACE. 


vii 


chase  specially  treated  as  a theme  by  the  Celtic  lyrist.  Like 
the  pastoral  lays  before  alluded  to,  songs  of  the  chase  have 
been  cultivated,  in  England,  as  a peculiar  style  of  composition, 
while  in  the  lyrics  of  Scotland  and  Ireland  the  love  of  the 
chase  only  appears  incidentally.  Again,  I asked  myself,  “ why 
is  this  ?”  And  memory  gave  me  the  answer,  by  calling  up  before 
me  that  charming  scene  in  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  where  Douglas, 
on  meeting  his  daughter,  who  had  been  anxiously  awaiting  his 
return,  accounts  for  his  absence  by  saying — 

“ My  child,  the  chase  I follow’d  far; — 

’Tis  mimicry  of  noble  war.” 

And  this,  I think,  is  the  answer  to  the  question.  The  Celt 
looked  upon  the  chase  as  but  the  mimicry  of  war — and  as  he 
had  the  real  article  but  too  often  on  his  hands,  he  did  not  care 
much  about  the  bardic  celebration  of  the  mimicry. 

With  respect  to  Sea-Songs,  the  solution  is  sufficiently  easy. 
That  England,  the  Mistress  of  the  Seas,  should  be  great  in 
maritime  ode  and  song — that  she  should  revel,  as  it  were,  in 
such  a subject,  and  leave  little  to  be  done  by  any  other  portion 
of  the  united  kingdom,  is  quite  natural.  But  though  the  bulk 
of  English  maritime  lyrics  has  proceeded  from  English  pens, 
the  few  that  have  been  produced  by  Scotch  and  Irish  are  of  the 
highest  class.  It  will  scarcely  be  questioned  that  Scotland 
may  claim  the  first  place,  in  right  of  Campbell’s  “ Battle  of  the 
Baltic,”  and  “Ye  Mariners  of  England,”  and  though  “Rule 
Britannia”  is  not  a sea-song,  it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  this 
finest  and  most  exultant  national  ode  of  Britain  is  by  a Scotch- 
man. Ireland  contributes  to  the  lyric  celebration  of  England’s 
naval  glory  in  the  music  of  “The  Arethusa;”  that  noble  air, 
by  Carolan,  being  very  shabbily  purloined  by  W.  Shield. 
“ The  Mid  Watch,”  by  Sheridan,  is  of  the  first  mark ; Cherry’s 
“Bay  of  Biscay,  0!”  achieved  great  popularity;  “The  Boat- 
man’s Hymn”  (a  translation  from  the  Irish)  is  full  of  spirit  and 


Till 


PEEFACE. 


originality ; and  last,  and  greatest,  is  “ The  Forging  of  the 
Anchor,”  by  Mr.  Samuel  Ferguson;  an  ode  of  surpassing  power 
and  beauty. 

Under  the  head  of  Patriotic  and  Military  Songs,  the  three 
books  are  pretty  equal  in  quantity ; in  quality  I think  Ireland 
has  rather  the  advantage.  The  class  entitled  Jacobite  Songs, 
in  the  Scottish  collection,  has  its  counterpart  in  this,  under  the 
head  of  Historical  and  Political  Songs  ; and  this  section  might 
have  been  much  larger,  but  that  the  nature  of  the  subject  ren- 
dered the  most  condensed  form  the  best.  Some  would,  perhaps, 
say,  “ Why  introduce  such  songs  at  all  ?”  But  I think,  in  a 
book  purporting  to  be  a comprehensive  national  collection  of 
lyrics,  exemplifying  national  character  and  incident,  such  a sec- 
tion could  not  be  omitted.  Such  songs,  odes,  and  ballads  are 
historically  interesting  ; the  specimens  are  not  confined  to  the 
lyric  effusions  of  one  party  ; those  of  both  are  given,  arranged 
in  succession,  according  to  their  date — or,  at  least,  according  to 
the  succession  of  the  times  they  illustrate.  The  editorial  notice 
given  to  some  of  these  may  appear  long,  at  first  sight,  but  the 
notes  are  no  longer  than  is  necessary  for  the  perfect  under- 
standing of  the  text. 

I considered  it  a duty  to  insert  in  this  volume  many  songs 
that  have  appeared  in  English  collections  from  the  pens  of 
Irish  writers.  After  having  stated  the  unfavourable  nature  of 
our  start  in  the  race  of  literature,  we  cannot  afford  to  have  some 
favourites  “scratched”  out  of  our  list.  The  works  of  Gold- 
smith, Sheridan,  O’Keefe,  Cherry  (and  not  unfrequently  Moore), 
have  been  placed  to  the  credit  side  of  the  account  of  England’s 
lyric  literature.  This  is  a mistake  which  should  be  rectified. 
The  lyric  works  of  all  who  are  Irish  should  appear  in  a book  of 
Irish  Songs ; and  I am  supported  in  this  opinion  by  the  pre- 
cedent afforded  me  in  the  Book  of  Scottish  Songs,  where 
numerous  lyrics  are  given  without  any  distinctive  Scotticism  to 


PREFACE. 


IX 


mark  their  nationality,  but  merely  because  they  are  the  works 
of  Scottish  writers. 

It  is  not  requisite  that  the  Shannon,  or  the  Liffey,  or  some 
other  topographical  mark,  or  Hibernian  epithet  or  idiom,  should 
appear  in  a song  to  give  Ireland  a right  to  claim  it.  Human 
affections,  passions,  sentiments,  are  expressed  in  Ireland 
without  allusion  to  the  Shamrock,  or  an  appeal  to  St.  Patrick ; 
why  then  should  some  national  emblem  or  idiom  be  insisted 
upon  to  constitute  a right  in  Ireland  to  claim  some  admirable 
production  of  the  lyric  muse  to  add  to  her  garland  ? No  one 
would  venture  to  dispute  that  Moore’s  songs,  “ The  Meeting 
of  the  Waters,”  “The  Last  Rose  of  Summer,”  and  scores  of 
ethers,  stand  to  the  credit  of  Irish  literature,  though  there 
is  not  one  word  in  any  of  them  to  identify  them  as 
Hibernian.  In  this  collection,  the  very  first  song  is  that 
of  a lady  of  the  illustrious  race  of  Sheridan — “ Terence’s  Fare- 
well,” by  Lady  Dufferin  ; — that  song  describes  the  parting  of 
an  Irishman  from  his  sweetheart.  No  one  will  dispute  that 
Ireland  fairly  lays  claim  to  literary  honour  in  that  song.  Well, 
close  beside  this  is  a lyric  by  that  lady’s  sister — the  exquisite 
song,  “Love  Not,”  by  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Norton.  Who 
can  say  that  Ireland  is  not  as  well  entitled  to  the  honour  of 
that  ? What  nicety  of  argument  can  divide  her  claim  between 
two  sisters  ? If  the  genius  of  the  one  do  her  honour,  she  is 
equally  entitled  to  honour  from  the  genius  of  the  other. 

Some  few  songs  are  given  whose  authors  are  not  Irish ; but 
the  lyrics  being  thoroughly  Hibernian  in  subject,  cannot  be 
omitted  here.  Such  songs,  however,  are  few — indeed,  there 
are  but  two  of  any  celebrity,  and  they  arc  adapted  to  Irish 
music : Colman’s  “ Savourneen  Deelish,”  and  Campbell’s  far- 
famed  lyric,  “ The  Exile  of  Erin.”  Numberless  songs  of  a 
comic  character  have  been  written  by  stranger-hands  which 
have  not  been  inserted,  utterly  deficient  as  they  are  in  true 

1* 


X 


PREFACE, 


Irish  character.  Indeed,  our  native  comic  song  writers,  at 
one  period,  were  too  prone  to  compose  their  songs  on  this 
foreign,  false,  and  exaggerated  model,  copying  all  the  gross 
absurdities  that  were  once  supposed  to  constitute  an  Irish 
comic  song ; among  the  fancied  characteristics  of  this  class 
were  expletive  oaths,  “ Whack  fol  de  rols,” — “ hurroos,”  pigs, 
pratees,  brogues,  shillelahs,  jewels,  and  joys;  and  coarseness 
and  vulgarity  were  the  offensive  substitutes  for  wit.  Happily 
those  songs,  too  long  a disgrace  to  the  literature  of  Ireland, 
are  being  banished  by  degrees  from  our  literary  currency,  to 
give  place  to  others  bearing  the  true  stamp  of  nationality. 
Nevertheless,  some  few  will  be  found  among  the  comic  songs  in 
this  collection  not  quite  free  from  alloy,  but  the  greater  num- 
ber are  of  pure  metal  ; and  where  they  are  not  so,  their  presence 
here  has  been  deemed  indispensable,  from  their  having  been 
very  popular.  And  yet  some,  of  great  popularity,  I have 
omitted;  for  example,  “O’Rourke’s  Noble  Feast,”  a para- 
phrase from  the  Irish  by  Dean  Swift,  which  Sir  Walter  Scott 
mentions  in  his  edition  of  the  works  of  the  Dean  with  great 
praise,  but  which  I think  long,  even  to  tediousness,  and,  what 
is  worse,  very  coarse,  in  parts,  and  its  absence,  therefore, 
need  not  be  regretted  by  any  person  of  refinement.  There  is 
another  of  great  celebrity,  called  “ The  Night  before  Larry  was 
Stretched,”  which  has  been  attributed  to  a clergyman,  whose 
name  I forbear  to  mention ; but  any  one  who  values  the 
character  of  a churchman  will  hope  a churchman  never  wrote 
it.  As  the  work  of  a divine  (if  it  be  so),  it  may  be  looked  upon 
as  a literary  curiosity ; but  the  hanging  of  a felon  who  plays 
cards  on  his  coffin  before  his  execution,  described  in  barbarous 
slang,  is,  in  my  opinion,  far  more  disgusting  than  comic,  and 
therefore  it  has  not  been  admitted. 

Respecting  the  notes  that  are  scattered  through  this  volume, 
I am  under  some  apprehension  that  a desire  to  make  them  more 


TEEFACE. 


xi 


interesting  than  notes,  under  similar  circumstances,  generally 
are,  may  have  rendered  them  sometimes  diffuse,  but,  I trust,  not 
tiresome.  Giving  the  mere  date  of  a song,  or  the  birth  and 
death  of  its  author,  is  but  dry  information,  partaking  too  much 
of  the  parish  register ; and  I had  rather  be  gossiping  than  dull ; 
besides,  as  a collection  of  lyrics  may  be  considered  as  contri- 
buting to  the  lighter  pleasures  of  literature — looked  into  rather 
for  relaxation  than  study, — a severe,  or  sober  tone  of  annotation, 
if  not  out  of  place,  may  at  least  be  dispensed  with,  except  in 
some  rare  cases ; and,  therefore,  I have  indulged  in  an  occa- 
sional pleasantry  of  tone  in  my  annotations,  rather  unusual, 
I believe,  but  1 hope  not  unbecoming  ’ or  misplaced ; and 
wherever  a point  was  worthy  of  serious  explanation,  I trust  I 
may  be  found  to  have  taken  pains  to  be  accurate. 

In  the  course  of  this  work  I have  had  occasion  to  notice 
certain  trespasses  committed  by  Scottish  publishers,  not  only 
on  the  music,  but  the  words  of  Irish  songs.  The  complaint,  as 
far  as  the  music  goes,  has  been  often  made  before ; Moore,  for 
instance,  in  the  third  number  of  the  “ Irish  Melodies,”  says, 
“ The  Scotch  lay  claim  to  some  of  our  best  airs,  but  there  are 
strong  traits  of  difference  between  their  melodies  and  ours. 
They  had  formerly  the  same  passion  for  robbing  us  of  our 
Saints ; and  the  learned  Dempster  was,  for  this  offence,  called 
‘ The  Saint  Stealer.’  ” But  so  far  from  remonstrance  producing 
any  beneficial  result,  the  publishers  and  editors  of  recent  days 
transgress  still  more  than  their  antecessors.  I wish  it  to  be 
noticed  that  it  is  of  Scottish  publishers  and  editors  I complain, 
rather  than  of  the  Scottish  people ; for  it  is  only  natural  that 
any  people  will  be  prone  to  believe  that  a beautiful  melody  had 
its  birth  among  them,  if  editors  and  publishers  will  go  on  telling 
them  so.  What  makes  this  more  inexcusable  is,  that  Scotland 
has  enough  of  beautiful  songs  of  her  own  without  wronging 
other  lands  by  appropriating  theirs ; and  having  already  in  this 


Xll 


PREFACE. 


preface  paid  the  tribute  of  my  highest  admiration  to  the  lyric 
genius  of  Scotland,  I feel  myself  the  more  free  to  expose  any 
false  claims  of  hers  on  this  subject,  and  in  doing  so  I have 
been  most  scrupulous  that  the  proofs  I advance  should  be 
irrefragable. 

In  conclusion,  I would  say  that  I have  endeavoured  to  make 
this  collection,  both  in  text  and  annotation,  as  national  as 
possible.  Now,  I think  the  true  meaning  of  the  word  “national” 
has,  of  late,  been  sometimes  misunderstood  in  Ireland.  The 
word  has  sometimes  been  used  there  in  a sense  which  seems  to 
me  rather  sectional  than  national.  Several  volumes  of  Irish 
Songs  have  been  published  in  Ireland,  of  late  years,  far  from 
being  general  in  their  character  ; they  tend  rather  to  minister 
to  the  predilections  of  a portion  of  Ireland  than  to  enlist  the 
sympathies  of  all.  The  introductions  to  those  volumes,  and 
many  of  their  notes,  savour  so  much  of  the  partisan  as  to  limit 
their  circulation — to  isolate  Ireland,  rather  than  introduce  her 
to  an  enlarged  community  of  social  sympathy.  The  use  of  the 
Celtic  alphabetical  character  mingled  in  the  text  with  the 
Homan  letter,  which  has  been  adopted  in  some  of  these  volumes, 
as  it  embarrasses  the  English  reader,  I think  a mistake  tending 
to  that  isolation  which  I lament,  and,  therefore,  the  Celtic 
alphabetical  character  has  been  avoided  in  this  volume.  There 
can  be  no  objection  to  give  an  original  Irish  poem  in  the  old 
Celtic  character,  and  the  translation  opposite,  or  following — as 
in  “ Hardiman’s  Minstrelsy  — but  to  give  every  Irish  name  and 
Irish  word  in  the  Celtic  character,  mixed  with  the  Iloman 
letter,  seems  to  me  a mere  literary  foppery. 

While  I say  this,  I beg  at  the  same  time  to  disclaim  the 
smallest  disrespect  to  Irish  scholarship.  All  honour  to  the 
translators  of  Irish  works  ; be  it  to  those  who  live,  or  to  the 
memories  of  those  who  have  passed  away: — all  honour  to  them, 
I say  ! I honour  them  as  the  emancipators  of  their  country’s 


PREFACE. 


Xlll 


literature  from  the  “ chain  of  silence,”  that  that  literature 
might  be  free  to  go  abroad  into  the  world  and  raise  friends  to 
the  land  of  its  birth,  by  touching  the  chords  of  human  sym 
pathy: — and,  in  the  spirit  of  thorough  emancipation,  I say, 
let  no  particle  of  the  fetter  from  which  it  has  been  freed 
obstruct  its  way  to  the  English  reader. 

But,  while  I express  my  deepest  respect  for  Irish  scholar- 
ship, I beg  to  say  that  a man  may  have  a sincere  love  of  Ire- 
land, and  employ  his  pen  effectively  in  her  cause,  without  that 
accomplishment.  It  is  not  an  ancient  alphabetic  character 
ostentatiously  appended  to  a very  green  ribbon  that  constitutes 
the  highest  Irish  “ order  of  merit the  “ trappings  and  the 
suits”  of  patriotism  are  as  little  to  be  depended  upon  as  those  of 
“ woe.”  And  sure  am  I that  the  springs  from  which  the  purest 
love  of  country  flows  must  be  sought  for  in  nobler  sources  than 
a fount  of  Celtic  type. 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 


Barges,  London , 

January , 1860. 


P.  S.  I beg  to  return  thanks  to  all  friends  who  afforded  me 
assistance  in  the  compilation  of  the  following  pages,  either  in 
granting  me  permission  to  use  their  works,  or  in  forwarding  to 
me,  from  distant  places,  extracts  from  records  I pointed  out. 
To  name  them  all  is  needless,  but  I must  ^particularize  one, 
W.  Chappell,  Esq.,  F.S.A.,  who,  from  his  extensive  knowledge 
in  ballad  literature,  was  enabled  to  offer  me  some  useful  sug- 
gestions, and  to  him  I am  indebted  for  pointing  out  Duffett’s 
song,  “ Since  Ccelia’s  my  Foe,”*  which  clears  up,  definitively,  a 
disputed  musical  claim  between  Ireland  and  Scotland. 


* Page  38. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTIONS  TO 

Page 


Songs  of  the  Affections  1 

Convivial  and  Comic  Songs 75 

Moral,  Sentimental,  and  Satirical  Songs  153 

Patriotic  and  Military  Songs 197 

Historical  and  Political  Songs  235 

Miscellaneous  Songs  •. 305 


SONGS  AND  ODES. 


A Bumper  of  Good  Liquor  Rt.  Hon.  R.  R.  Sheridan 

Ah,  Cruel  Maid Rt.  Hon.  R.  R.  Sheridan 

Ailleen John  Ranim 

Alas ! thou  hast  no  Wings,  Oh ! Time Rt.  Hon.  R.  R.  Sheridan 

Annie,  Dear  Thomas  Davis 

A place  in  thy  Memory,  Dearest Gerald  Griffin 

A Prospect Edward  Lysaght 

A Sigh  for  Knockmany William  Carleton  .... 

A Soldier  to-night  is  our  Guest  Gerald  Griffin 

As  panting  flies  the  hunted  Hind Oliver  Goldsmith  .... 

A Spinning-Wheel  Song  J.  F.  Waller , LL.D.  . . 

A Sup  of  Good  Whiskey 

Avondhu Callanan 


88 

34 

35 
179 

22 

13 

298 

232 

226 

163 

311 

143 

231 


Bad  Luck  to  this  Marching Charles  Lever 

Banish  Sorrow  Right  Hon.  Geo.  Ogle.. 

Barney  Brallaghan’s  Courtship 

Beauty  and  Time  Samuel  Lover 


206 

123 

117 

191 


CONTENTS. 


XV 


’Be  H-Eirinn  I 

Boatman’s  Hymn 

Bridget  Cruise  

Bridget  Cruise  to  Carolan 
Bumper,  Squire  Jones  . . 
By  Coelia’s  Arbour 


Pago 


( From  the  Irish) 21 

( From  the  Irish) 321 

Carolan  46 

( From  the  Irish) 48 

Baron  Dawson  114 

Hi.  Hon.  R.  B.  Sheridan  54 


Caitrin,  the  Daughter  of  John 
Can  I again  that  Look  recall  ? 

Cate  of  Araglen 

Cease,  oh,  cease  to  tempt  .... 
Come,  all  you  pale  Lovers .... 

Cormac  Oge 

Could  I her  Faults  remember 

Coulin 

cPCorinna  

Cruiskin  Lawn 

Cupid’s  Wing 

Cushla  ma  Chree  

Cuslila  ma  Gliree  


Moore 

Domhnal  Gleannach  . . 

Moore 

Thomas  Duffett 


Rt.  Hon.  R.  B.  Sheridan 

Caroll  Malone 

Dean  Swift 


Samuel  Lover 

{From  the  Irish) 

Rt.  Hon.  J.  B.  Curran . 


330 

23 

69 

27 

41 

172 

157 

239 

191 

131 

178 

50 

223 


Dance  light,  for  my  Heart  it  lies  under  \ _ 

J*  * \ J.F.  Waller , LL.D.  . . 

your  Feet,  Love J 

Dark  Rosaleen  {From  the  Irish) 

Dear  Land  

Deirdre  {From  the  Irish) 

Deirdre’s  Lament  for  the  Sons  of  Usnach  . . {From  the  Irish) 

Deserter’s  Meditation 

Drimmin  Dhu {Irish  Jacobite  Relic) . .. 

Dry  be  that  Tear  Rt.  Hon.  R.  B.  Sheridan 


187 

245 

301 

342 

344 

326 

256 


Eileen  Aroon Gerald  Griffin  

O Epigram — As  Thomas  was  cudgelled  Dean  Swift 

^Epigram  on  the  Busts  in  Richmond  Her- ) 

..  > Dean  Swift 

nntage J 

Epitaph  on  Dr.  Parnell Oliver  Goldsmith  .... 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon. . ..  .* Oliver  Goldsmith  .. .. 


Cl 

ICO 

189 

160 

187 


XV  i 


CONTENTS. 


Fair-hill’ d,  pleasant  Ireland 

Farewell 

Farewell,  Bessy 

Forgive,  but  don’t  forget 

For  I am  Desolate 

Fragment  from  the  Irish 

Fragment  from  the  Greek  !" 

From  that  cold  Sod  that’s  o’er  you 


Page 


( From  the  Irish) 209 

Callanan 56 

Thomas  Moore  9 

Samuel  Lover 17 

Gerald  Griffin 320 

John  Dalton  (Trans.)  . . 51 

Thomas  Moore  (Trans.)  51 
(From  the  Irish ) 29 


.Garry  o wen  

Gille  ma  Chree 

Glenfinnishk  

Go,  Forget  me  

Gougaune  Barra 

Grace  Nugent 

Grainne  Maol  and  Queen  Elizabeth 
Green  were  the  Fields  


Gerald  Griffin 

Joseph  O’Leary 

Rev.  Charles  Wolfe. . . . 

Callanan 

Carolan  

(From  the  Irish) 

G.  N.  Reynolds 


122 

28 

318 

12 

167 

316 

247 

288 


Had  I a Heart  for  Falsehood  framed  Rt.  Hon.  It.  R.  Sheridan  46 

Had  I the  Tun  which  Bacchus  used R.  A.  Milliken  112 

Hark!  hark!  the  soft  Bugle  Gerald  GriJJin 184 

Harry’s  Sword 295 

He  was  famed  for  Deeds  of  Arms Andrew  Cherry  341 

Hope  Oliver  Goldsmith  ....  174 

Hours  like  those  I spent  with  you  Callanan 19 

How  oft,  Louisa Rt.  Hon.  R.  R.  Sheridan  37 

Hy-Brasail — the  Isle  of  the  Blest Gerald  Griffin  165 


I love  my  Love  in  the  Morning  Gerald  Griffin. . 

I’m  a ranting,  roving  Blade Samuel  Lover  . . 

I ne’er  could  any  Lustre  see Sheridan 

Inspiring  Fount  of  cheering  Wine (From  the  Irish) 

It’s  little  for  Glory  I care Charles  Lever  . . 

I was  the  Boy  for  bewitching  them 

I wish  I might  a Rose-bud  grow Moore 


16 

128 

63 

100 

131 

145 

51 


John  O’Dwyer  of  the  Glen 


(From  the  Irish) 


241 


CONTENTS  Xvii 

Page 

Joys  that  pass  away Moore 34 


Kate  of  Garna villa Edward  Lysaght 

Kate  (Cate)  of  Arraglen  Lomhnall  Gleannach  . . 

Katlialeen  Ny-Houlahan ( Irish  Jacobite  Relic)  . . 

Kathleen  O’More  Geo.  Nugent  Reynolds.. 

Katty  Mooney 

King  James’s  Welcome  to  Ireland 

Know  ye  not  that  lovely  Biver  ? Gerald  Griffin 


176 

69 

266 

20 

111 

253 

175 


Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant. Lady  Laffer  in 

Larry  M‘Hale Charles  Lever 

Last  Wish  Francis  Lavis 

Leading  the  Calves  ( From  the  Irish) 

Leave  us  a Lock  of  your  Hair J.  F.  Waller , LL.L.  . . 

Let  the  Toast  pass Rt.  Hon.  R.  R.  Sheridan 

Lilli  Burlero 

^ Lines  written  on  a Window  Pane  at  Chester,  Lean  Swift 

Loony  Mactwolter George  Colman  

Love  Not  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton  .... 


6 

132 

347 

336 

142 

78 

254 

192 

148 

8 


Margread  Ni  Chealleadh  

Mark’d  you  her  Cheek  ? 

Mary  Draper 

Mary  Le  More  

Mary  of  Tipperary 

Mauryeen 

Mild  Mahle  Kelly 

Molly  Astore 

Molly  Astore 

Molly  Bawn  

Molly  Carew  

Mother,  he’s  going  away  

Mr.  Barney  Maguire’s  Account  of  the 

Coronation 

My  Connor  

My  Friend  and  Pitcher 


Edward  W alsli  

Rt.  Hon.  R.  B.  Sheridan 

Charles  Lever 

George  Nugent  Reynolds 
Samuel  Lover 


Carolan 

Rt.  Hon.  Geo.  Ogle  . . 

( From  the  Irish) 

Samuel  Lover 

Samuel  Lover 

Samuel  Lover 

Rev.  John  Barham  .... 


O'Keefe 


327 

185 

134 

294 

334 

339 

10 

43 

64 

55 

94 

18 

150 

59 

96 


XV111 


CONTENTS. 


My  Love’s  the  fairest  Creature 

My  Mother  Dear  

My  Native  Land 

My  Native  Town  

Ned  of  the  Hill 

Now  can’t  you  he  easy  ? ............. 

O’Byrne’s  Bard  to  the  Clans  of  Wicklow 

Ode  to  the  Minstrel  O’Connellan 

Oh,  don’t  you  remember  ? 

Oh!  Erin! 

Oh ! once  we  were  illigant  People  

Oh,  tell  me,  sweet  Kate 

Oh  yield,  fair  Lids 

0,  Judith,  my  dear  

Old  Times  

O,  Memory  . . .' 

One  Bottle  more 

On  Mrs.  Biddy  Floyd  

On  returning  a Bing  to  a Lady  

O ! say,  my  Brown  Drimmin 

O ! the  Days  when  I was  young ! 

Our  Island 

Over  the  Hills  and  far  away 

Paddy  the  Piper 

Peggy  Browne  _ 

Petrarch’s  Inkstand  

Phelim  O’Neill 

Potteen,  good  Luck  to  ye,  Dear  

Purty  Molly  Brallaghan 

Boisin  Dubh 

Bory  O’More 

Savourneen  Deelish 


Page 

Lady  Morgan 68 

Samuel  Lover 14 

207 

Samuel  Lover 195 

Samuel  Lover 324 

Charles  Lever 145 

{From  the  Irish ) 227 

{From  the  Irish ) 42 

Samuel  Lover 31 

John  Dalton  213 

Charles  Lever 149 

Lady  Morgan 68 

Sheridan 53 

{From  the  Irish) 12 

Gerald  Griffin 173 

Oliver  Goldsmith  ....  158 

146 

Dean  Swift 190 

lit.  Hon.  J.  P.  Curran. . L56 

{Irish  Jacobite  Relic)  . . 257 

Sheridan 118 

Hdivard  Lysaght 285 

{Irish  Jacobite  Song)  . . 264 

13G 

Carolan  21 

Miss  Fdgeworth 186 

Carolan  135 

Charles  Lever  93 

87 

{From  the  Irish) 244 

Samuel  Lover 108 

George  Colman  30 


CONTENTS. 


XIX 


See  the  ripe  Fruit John  D' Alton  . . 

Serenade J.  J.  Cdllanan . . 

Shan  Van  Vougli 

Since  Ccelia’s  my  Foe  Thomas  Dujfebt 

Sleep  on John  O'Keefe  . . 

Sleep,  that  like  the  couched  Dove  Gerald  Griffin . . 

Sinai  ilou  

Soggarth  Aroon JBanim 

Song — “ O’er  the  clear  quiet  Waters”  ....  Mrs.  S.  C.  Sail 

Song  of  the  Streams Mrs.  Downing . . 

Song,  (Thyrsis)  Dr.  Darnell . . . . 


Songs  of  our  Land 

St.  Patrick’s  Day  in  my  own  Parlour J.  F.  Waller,  LL.D.  . . 

St.  Patrick  was  a Gentleman 

Such  was  the  Eye  


Sweet  Chloe  

Sweet  Seducer  

Sympathy  

Terence’s  Farewell 

Thady  O’ Brady  

The  Angel’s  Whisper 

The  Banks  of  Banna 

The  Banshee’s  Wail 



Mrs.  Downing 

The  Battle  of  the  Boyne  . . 

The  Battle  of  the  Boyne  . . 
The  Battle  of  Dundalk  . . . 

The  Bay  of  Biscay,  0 ! . . . . 

The  Bells  of  Shandon  .... 

The  Birth  of  St.  Patrick  . . 

The  Bivouac  

The  Blackbird 

The  Blarney  

S.  C.  Sail  

The  Blarney  

The  Blush  of  Morn 

The  Bowld  Sojer  Boy  . . . . 

The  Boyne  Water 

Page 

51 

351 
278 

38 

15 

181 

101 

214 

322 

317 

192 

352 
230 

97. 

65 

185 

37 

57 

5 

89 

24 

73 

220 

259 

261 

239 

342 

169 

119 

218 

267 

84 

85 
62 

219 

258 


XX 


CONTENTS. 


The  Boys  of  Kilkenny 

The  Boys  of  the  Irish  Brigade Mrs.  Gore  

The  Bridal  Wake  Gerald  Griffin 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Rev.  Charles  Wolfe  . . 

*Tis  a Bit  of  a Thing  that  a Body  may  sing 

The  Chain  of  Gold Samuel  Lover 

The  Convict  of  Clonmell  ( From  the  Irish ) 

The  Croppy  Boy Caroll  Malone 

The  Dawning  of  the  Day  

The  Dear  Irish  Boy 

The  Deserter’s  Meditation 


The  Exile  of  Erin Campbell 

The  Fairy  Boy  Samuel  Lover 

The  Fetch  Banim 

The  First  Cuckoo  in  Spring J.  F.  Waller,  LL.L.  . . 

The  Flower  of  Finae Thomas  Davis 

The  Forester’s  Complaint S.  Ferguson,  M.R.I.A. . 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor S.  Ferguson,  M.R.I.A. . 

The  Four-leaved  Shamrock  Samuel  Lover 

The  Girl  I love  ( From  the  Irish') 

The  Girls  of  the  West  Charles  Lever 

The  Grave  of  Mac  Caura  Mrs.  Downing 

The  Groves  of  Blarney R.  A.  Milliken  

The  Green  Spot  that  blooms Curran 

The  Haunted  Spring Samuel  Lover 

The  Hero  of  Ballinacrazy  

The  Irish  Dragoon Charles  Lever 

The  Irish  Duel 

The  Irish  Maiden’s  Song John  Banim 

The  Irishman James  Orr  

The  Island  of  Atlantis  Rev.  Dr.  Croly  

The  Jug  of  Punch  

The  Lamentation  of  Hugh  Reynolds ( Street  Ballad ) 

The  Land  of  Potatoes,  O!  , 

The  Land  of  the  West Samuel  Lover 

The  Leaves  so  Green  . . ...... 

The  Lost  Path  Thomas  Davis 


Page 

106 

217 

308 

210 

124 

243 

310 

292 

325 
58 

326 
289 

58 

331 

337 
269 
307 
312 
180 

52 

208 

229 

79 

63 

338 
140 

204 
147 
223 
202 
164 
105 
348 

92 

205 
323 

332 


CONTENTS. 


xxi 


The  Love-sick  Maid 

The  Low -hacked  Car 

The  Maiden  City  

The  Maid  of  Ballyhaunis  

The  Man  for  Galway 

The  Man  who  led  the  Van  of  the  Irish 

Volunteers 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead  

The  Mid- watch  

The  Monks  of  the  Screw  

The  Mother’s  Lament  

The  Mother  to  her  Son 

The  Mountain  Dew  

The  Night  Cap 

The  Night  was  still  

The  Patriot  Mother 

The  Picquets  are  fast  retreating.  Boys .... 

The  Plaint  of  the  Exile 

The  Pope  he  leads  a happy  Life  

The  Rakes  of  Mallow 

The  Reconciliation 

The  Road  of  Life  

The  Sea  

The  Shan  Van  Vogh  (1796)  

The  Shan  Van  Vougli  


Samuel  Lover 

Charlotte  Elizabeth  . . 

( From  the  Irish ) 

Charles  Lever 

Edward  Lysaght 


Sheridan 

Rt.  Hon.  J.  P.  Curran. 

Gerald  Griffin 

Mrs.  Downing 

Samuel  Lover 


Callanan 


Charles  Lever  . 
J.  O’ Donoghue 
Charles  Lever . 


Banim 

Samuel  Lover 
Mrs.  Downing 


{Street  Ballad) 


The  Siege  of  Carrickfergus 

The  Silvery  Lee  

The  Snow  

The  Soldier 

The  Song  of  the  Glass  . . . 
The  Sprig  of  Shillelah  . . . 

The  Town  of  Passage 

The  Triumphs  of  O’Neill  . 
The  Twisting  of  the  Rope . 
The  Wake  of  the  Absent  . 

The  White  Cockade 

The  Wild  Geese 


Samuel  Lover 

Samuel  Lover 

John  F.  Waller , LL.D. 

Edivard  Lysaght 

Father  Rrout 

W.  H.  Maxivell 

{From  the  Irish) 

Gerald  Griffin 

{From  the  Irish) 

Dr.  Drennan 


Page 

71 

137 
250 

26 

141 

274 

297 

329 

102 

30 

225 

15 

127 

26 

296 

224 

203 

126 

346 

300 

183 

335 

276 

278 

272 

171 

160 

268 

129 

138 
82 

216 

319 

315 

263 

265 


XXII 


CONTEXTS. 


The  Wind  and  the  Weathercock Samuel  Lover 

The  Woman  of  Three  Cows (From  the  Irish ) 

The  Woods  of  Caillino L.  N.  F.  

Thou  hast  sent  me  a Flowery  Band Moore 

Tom  Moody Andrew  Cherry 

To  the  Battle,  Men  of  Erin Campbell 

True  Love  can  ne’er  forget  Samuel  Lover 

Twelve  Articles Lean  Swift 


Page 

189 

193 

161 

55 

340 

212 

49 

196 


Up  for  the  Green 

Virtue Oliver  Goldsmith  .... 

Voices  of  the  Past Miss  Herbert 


280 

172 

234 


Waiting  for  the  May 

War  Song  of  O’Driscoll 

We  Two 

What  Bard,  0 Time,  discover 

When  Erin  first  rose  

When  fill’d  with  Thoughts  of  Life’s  young  'k 

Day ! J 

When  lovely  Woman  stoops  to  Folly 

When  Sable  Night 

When  this  Old  Cap  was  New  

When  your  Beauty  appears 

Whiskey,  Drink  divine ! 

Why,  Liquor  of  Life ! 

Widow  ma  Chree  

Widow  Malone  

Who’er  she  be,  I love  her 

Willy  Beilly  

Would  you  choose  a Friend 


Clarence  Mangan  .... 

Gerald  Griffin 

Sheridan 

Sheridan 


Gerald  Griffin 

Goldsmith  

Sheridan 

S.  Ferguson,  M.F.I.A. . 

Lr.  Parnell 

Joseph  O'Leary 

Carolan  

Samuel  Lover 

Charles  Lever 

( From  the  Irish) 

(Provincial  Pallad)  . . . 
Gerald  Griffin 


182 

205 

53 

179 

283 

156 

178 

67 

221 

159 

109 

90 

113 

120 

332 

349 

86 


Young  Kate  of  Kilcummer 
Yon  never  hade  me  hope  . 
Young  Tyrant  of  the  Bow. 


Gerald  Griffin. 
Per.  Lr.  Croly 


25 

52 

187 


CONTENTS. 


XX111 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Portrait  pud  Emblematic  Border - 

Designed  by  Engraved  by 

f F Smith  and}FSmi 
i . Harvey  j 

Page 

ii 

Illuminated  Introduction,  Songs  of  the'i 
Affections j 

• Dalziel  . . . . | 

Dalziel,  \ 
Drothers  j 

1 

Tailpiece  to  ditto  

. do 

do. 

. . 

4 

Terence’s  Farewell  

Phiz 

do. 

. . 

5 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Moore  

, Dalziel 

do. 

9 

Portrait  of  Gerald  Griffin 

. do 

do. 

13 

Landscape  Illustration  to  “I  love  my  Love) 

, „ r (lO 

in  the  Morning  j 

do. 

16 

The  Angel’s  Whisper  

do 

do. 

24 

Portrait  of  Eight  Hon.  Eicliard  Brinsley  1 
Sheridan J 

do 

do. 

32 

True  Love  can  ne’er  forget 

. Phiz 

do. 

49 

Farewell 

. Dalziel 

do. 

56 

Sympathy  

. do 

do. 

57 

Portrait  of  Rt.  lion.  John  Philpot  Curran. 

. do 

do. 

66 

Illuminated  Introduction  to  Convivial  and' 
Comic  Songs  

j-  do 

do. 

75 

Groves  of  Blarney 

. do 

do. 

79 

Cromwell  and  Ireton  at  Luncheon 

. Anonymous  . . 

do. 

86 

My  Friend  and  Pitcher 

. Phiz 

do. 

96 

Reception  at  the  Convent 

. Dalziel 

do. 

104 

Good-fellowship 

do 

do. 

112 

Portrait  of  Charles  Lever 

. do 

do. 

120 

Toll-free 

. Phiz 

do. 

137 

Illuminated  Introduction  to  Moral,  Senti-'] 
mental,  and  Satirical  Songs J 

[ Dalziel 

do. 

153 

Portrait  of  Oliver  Goldsmith  

. do 

do. 

158 

The  Woods  of  Caillino 

. do 

do. 

161 

Gougaune  Barra 

do. 

167 

Bells  of  Shandon,  Tailpiece 

. Dalziel 

do. 

170 

XXIV 


CONTEXTS, 


Four-leaved  Shamrock 

Petrarch’s  Inkstand 

Dance  light  

Woman  of  Three  Cows 

Illuminated  Illustration  to  Patriotic  and  1 

Military  Songs  j 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  

Portrait  of  John  Banim  

The  Bivouac  

The  Mother  to  her  Son 

Illuminated  Introduction  to  Historical  and-! 

Political  Songs  / 

The  Forest  Ambuscade 

King  James  at  the  Gates  of  Londonderry  . . 

The  Soldier  

Landing  the  French  Troops  at  Carrickfergus 
Medallion  Head  of  the  Bight  Hon.  Henry 

Grattan  j 

Colour-grinding 

The  Exile  of  Erin 

The  lleconciliation 

Illuminated  Introduction  to  Miscellaneous  1 

Songs  J 

Forging  the  Anchor  . . . . 

Biding  at  Anchor 

The  Stream  

On  the  Tide  Top  

The  Mid  Watch 

A Tipperary  Toilet  

The  Whipper-in ... 


Designed  by  Engraved  by  Page 
Dalziel Dalziel . 18C 


do 

do 

Harrison  Weir 

Dalziel 

Phiz 

Dalziel 

Phiz 

do 

Dalziel 

Phiz 

do 

do 

Dalziel 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

Harrison  Weir 

Dalziel 

do 

W.  Harvey  . . 
Harrison  Weir 


do. 

..  186 

do. 

..  188 

do. 

. . 193 

do. 

..  197 

do. 

..  210 

do. 

..  214 

do. 

..  218 

do. 

..  225 

do. 

..  235 

do. 

. . 241 

do. 

..  250 

do. 

. . 268 

do. 

..  272 

do. 

. . 274 

do. 

..  286 

do. 

..  289 

do. 

..  300 

do. 

..  3C5 

do. 

..  312 

do. 

..  314 

do. 

..  317 

do. 

..  321 

do. 

..  329 

do. 

. . 334 

do. 

..  340 

oyeiis  are  given  to  Poetry.” — So  says 
Shakspeare,  with  that  truthfulness 
+hat  pervades  all  his  representations 
of  human  thought  or  action,  and  with 
that  pithiness  and  conciseness  that  make 
his  sayings  so  well  remembered  and  so 
often  quoted. 

Much  of  what  can  be  said  in  an  intro- 
duction to  songs  of  the  affections  is  ex- 
pressed in  this  one  short  sentence,  “ lovers 
are  given  to  poetry.” — No  wonder  then 
in  the  abundance  of  love-songs : — seeing 
that  all  mankind  must  love; — must  pass 
that  fever  of  the  heart  incidental  to  their  existence,  and  in 


2 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


that  fever  rave  in  rhyme.  No  wonder  such  songs  have  had  a favour- 
able acceptance,  seeing  that  all  womankind  catch  the  sweet  infection  ; 
and,  in  the  fever  state,  would  listen  to  the  wildest  ravings  of  the 
lover  with  more  delight  than  to  the  sublimest  sentences  of  the 
sage. 

Nor  is  it  only  then  that  the  love-song  holds  its  influence  over  us ; 
it  partakes  of  the  quality  (pardon  the  comparison,  ladies,)  of  that 
scourge,  the  smallpox: — it  leaves  its  mark  behind  it.  That  fever 
infuses  a life-long  influence  into  our  blood  ; — in  after  years  we  look 
back  with  tender  recollection  on  the  time  when  our  hearts  first  beat 
to  the  measure  of  some  amatory  rhymes ; and  the  pulsations  of 
“ sober  sixty”  under  the  spell  of  memory  sympathize  with  those 
of  boyhood. 

Who  ever  forgot  that  indescribable  sensation  which  pervades  our 
whole  being  when  the  heart  is  first  conscious  of  love  ? It  is  as  if  the 
ripened  bud  of  existence  had  but  just  burst,  and  the  flower  of  life 
had  opened.  As  the  egg  contains  a hidden  life,  to  be  revealed  only 
by  the  fond  wings  that  enfold  it,  so  the  heart  has  a dormant  exist- 
ence within  it,  that  we  know  not  of,  till  the  brooding  wing  of  love 
awakes  it. 

And  what  a waking  ! — 

“ uli,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment’s  returning, 

When  passion  first  waked  a new  life  thro’  his  frame; 

And  his  soul,  like  the  wood,  that  grows  precious  in  burning, 

Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love’s  exquisite  flame  ?” 

But  other  love  than  that  which  so  potently  affects  our  nature  is 
graciously  granted  to  us — love,  which,  if  less  dominant  and  entranc- 
ing in  its  nature,  is  purer  and  more  enduring  : — the  love  of  the  parent 
for  the  child,  and  the  child  for  the  parent;  and  such  love  has  not 
been  silent  in  the  region  of  song.  But  this  love,  after  all,  is  but 
secondary,  and  depends  for  its  existence  on  the  master-passion  first 
alluded  to ; for  without  that  there  would  be  neither  parents  nor 
children.  Hence,  love  is  not  only  the  agency  ordained  by  Heaven  to 
carry  out  its  creative  will,  but  also  the  prolific  source  of  poetry. 

Let  the  humblest  rhymer  say,  what  first  moved  him  to  ‘ ‘ lisp  in 
numbers” — or  perhaps  to  stammer  ? — we  venture  to  answer  for  him, 
“love.” 

Even  the  poet,  who  may,  in  after  life,  have  achieved  high  things 
and  won  the  laurel  crown,  looks  back  with  a tenderness,  that  still 
moves  him,  to  his  first  address  to  the  “girl  of  his  soul.” — Let  Moore 
speak  in  eloquent  evidence. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


8 


“ Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth’s  past ; 

Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frown’d  before, 

To  smile  at  last ; 

He’ll  never  meet 
A joy  so  sweet, 

In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 

As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman’s  ear 
His  soul-felt  flame ; 

And,  at  ev’ry  close,  she  blush’d  to  hear 
The  one  lov’d  name.” 

Even  among  the  dullest  there  is  hardly  one  who  has  not,  some  time 
or  other,  inscribed 


“ A woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress’  eyebrow 

And  amongst  the  greatest  there  is  abundant  proof  that  the  con- 
sciousness of  possessing  the  “ spark  divine”  never  imparts  so  much 
pleasure  to  the  gifted  possessor  as  when  he  pours  out  the  treasure  of 
his  thought  in  passionate  profusion  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress  ; and 
enjoys  a delight  beyond  the  present  in  the  conviction  that  he  can 
grasp  the  future — that  his  spirit  shaU  rule  over  generations  yet 
unborn,  and  that  she  who  awoke  and  rewarded  his  lays  shall  share 
in  his  immortality.  • 

Many  of  the  greatest  names  might  be  called  in  proof  of  this : — 
but  let  the  “divine  Spenser”  answer  for  all,  and  with  prophetic 
passion : — 

“ One  day  I wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand ; 

But  came  the  waves,  and  washed  it  away  ; 

Agayne,  I wrote  it  with  a second  hand  ; 

But  came  the  tyde,  and  made  my  paynes  his  prey. 

Vayne  man,  say’d  she,  that  doest  in  vaine  assay 
A mortall  thing  so  to  immortalize  ; 

For  I my  selve  shall  like  to  this  decay, 

And  eke  my  name  bee  wiped  out  likewise. 

Not  so,  quod  I ; let  baser  things  devize 
To  dy  in  dust,  but  you  shall  live  by  fame : 

My  verse  your  vertues  rare  shall  eternize, 

And  in  the  heavens  wryte  your  glorious  name. 

Where,  when  as  death  shall  all  the  world  subdew, 

Our  love  shall  live,  and  later  life  renew.” 

I shall  not  attempt  a dissertation  upon  the  peculiar  qualities  of 


4 


SONGS  OF  TILE  AFFECTIONS. 


these  Irish  love-songs.  I have  no  desire  to  coax  the  reader  by  a 
pathway  of  preliminary  praise  into  one  of  those  laudatory  labyrinths 
in  which  both  readers  and  editors  so  often  lose  their  way,  or,  at  least, 
get  confused.  I believe  the  following  songs  are  good  enough  not  to 
need  any  editorial  encomium,  and  I leave  the  reader  to  discover  and 
enjoy  their  beauties,  uninfluenced  and  undisturbed  by  any  remark 
of  mine.  It  is  only  where  a note  is  required  in  explanation  of  an 
Irish  word  or  idiom,  in  each  song,  or  where  some  requisite,  or  inte- 
resting information,  or  current  remark  properly  belonging  to  it  is 
given,  that  I put  myself  in  the  readers  way,  and  then,  I hope,  not 
intrusively. 


Lady  Duffebiit. 


Seldom  runs  the  tide  of  talent  so  strongly  through  successive  generations  as  it  has 
done  in  the  distinguished  family  of  Sheridan.  First  springing  into  literary  notice  in 
the  days  of  Swift,  we  see,  in  the  witty  Dean’s  lively  correspondent,  the  grandfather  of 
the  illustrious  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  commemorated  by  Thomas  Moore,  in  his 
matchless  monody  as — 

“ The  orator,  dramatist,  minstrel,  who  ran 
Thro’  each  mode  of  the  lyre,  and  was  master  of  all.’* 

Through  him  is  descended  (in  the  sixth  generation)  the  authoress  of  the  two  following 
jongs.  She  has  written  many  (though  only  two  are  selected  here),  all  of  great  excellence ; 
out  none  can  evoke  their  mirth  or  their  tenderness  with  such  point  or  pathos  as  the  fair 
and  noble  lady  herself.  One  might  suppose  she  was  the  original  Moore  had  in  his  eye, 
when  he  wrote — 

Beauty  may  boast  of  her  eyes  and  her  cheeks. 

But  Love  from  the  lip  his  true  archery  wings  ; 

And  she,  who  but  feathers  the  shaft  when  she  speaks, 

At  once  sends  it  home  to  the  heart  when  she  sings.’* 

So,  my  Kathleen,  you’re  going  to  leave  me 
All  alone  by  myself  in  this  place, 

But  I’m  sure  you  will  never  deceive  me, 

Oh  no,  if  there’s  truth  in  that  face. 


6 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Though  England’s  a beautiful  city, 

Full  of  illigant  hoys,  oh  what  then — 

You  wouldn’t  forget  your  poor  Terence, 
You’ll  come  hack  to  ould  Ireland  again. 

Och,  those  English,  deceivers  hy  nature, 
Though  mayhe  you’d  think  them  sincere, 
They’ll  say  you’re  a sweet  charming  creature, 
But  don’t  you  helieve  them,  my  dear. 

No,  Kathleen,  agra  !*  don’t  he  minding 
The  flattering  speeches  they’ll  make, 

Just  tell  them  a poor  hoy  in  Ireland 
Is  breaking  his  heart  for  your  sake. 

It’s  a folly  to  keep  you  from  going, 

Though,  faith,  it’s  a mighty  hard  case — 
For,  Kathleen,  you  know,  there’s  no  knowing 
When  next  I shall  see  your  sweet  face. 

And  when  you  come  hack  to  me,  Kathleen, 
None  the  better  will  I he  off,  then — 

You’ll  he  spaking  such  beautiful  English, 
Sure,  I won’t  know  my  Kathleen  again. 

Eh,  now,  where’s  the  need  of  this  hurry — 
Don’t  flutter  me  so  in  this  way — 

I’ve  forgot  ’twixt  the  grief  and  the  flurry, 
Every  word  I was  maning  to  say ; 

Now  just  wait  a minute,  I hid  ye, — 

Can  I talk  if  ye  bother  me  so  ? 

Oh,  Kathleen,  my  blessing  go  wid  ye, 

Ev’ry  inch  of  the  way  that  you  go. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

Lady  Dufferin. 

I’m  sittin’  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a bright  May  mormn’  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride  ; 

The  corn  was  springin’  fresh  and  green, 
And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high — 

And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 


* My  love. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


7 


The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  is  bright  as  then, 

The  lark’s  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again ; 

But  I miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek, 

And  I still  keep  list’ning  for  the  words 
You  never  more  will  speak. 

*Tis  but  a step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near, 

The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary, 

I see  the  spire  from  here. 

But  the  grave-yard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 

For  I’ve  laid  you,  darling  1 down  to  sleep, 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I’m  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

F or  the  poor  make  no  new  friends, 

But,  oh ! they  love  the  better  still, 

The  few  our  F ather  sends ! 

And  you  were  all  / had,  Mary, 

My  blessin’  and  my  pride : 

There’s  nothin’  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 
That  still  kept  hoping  on, 

When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 
And  my  arm’s  young  strength  was  gone  ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 

I bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 
When  your  heart  was  tit  to  break, 

When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin’  there, 
And  you  hid  it,  for  my  sake  ! 

I bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 

Oh  ! I’m  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 
Where  grief  can’t  reach  you  more  I 

I’m  biddin’  you  a long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true ! 

But  I’ll  not  forget  you , darling ! 

In  the  land  I’m  goin’  to  ; 


8 


SONGS  OF  TIIE  AFFECTIONS. 


They  say  there’s  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 

But  I’ll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 
I’ll  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 

And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 
To  the  place  where  Mary  lies.; 

And  I’ll  think  I see  the  little  stile 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side : 

And  the  springin’  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn, 
When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


LOYE  NOT. 


lion.  Mrs.  Norton-. 

Here  we  find  another  gifted  daughter  of  the  house  of  Sheridan  upholding  the  hereditary 
honours  of  her  race  in  this  exquisite  lyric. 


Love  not,  love  not,  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay ! 

Hope’s  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly  flow’rs — 
Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away, 

When  they  have  blossomed  but  a few  short  hours. 

Love  not,  love  not ! 

Love  not,  love  not ! The  thing  you  love  may  die — 

May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth  ; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, 

Beam  on  its  grave  as  once  upon  its  birth. 

Love  not,  love  not ! 

Love  not,  love  not ! The  thing  you  love  may  change ; 

The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you  ; 

The  kindly-beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange  ; 

The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 

Love  not,  love  not ! 

Love  not,  love  not ! — Oh,  warning  vainly  said 
In  present  years,  as  in  the  years  gone  by : 

Love  flings  a halo  round  the  dear  one’s  head, 

Faultless,  immortal — till  they  change  or  die. 

Love  not,  love  not ! 


FAREWELL,  BESSY. 

Thomas  Moohe.  Born,  1779.  Died,  1852. 

In  making  the  record  in  the  line  above,  I have  noted  a birth  and  death  the  most  bril- 
liant and  the  most  lamented  of  all  the  lyric  poets  that  have  done  honour  to  that  land, 
emphatically  called,  “ The  Land  of  Song.”  I have  alluded  already,  in  the  preface  to  this 
volume,  to  the  want  of  a selection  from  Moore’s  best  songs,  in  a work  like  this,  which  the 
strict  guardianship  kept  over  them  by  the  proprietors  of  the  copyright  renders  impossible. 
A few  of  his  early  songs,  however,  young  firstlings  of  fancy,  strayed  away  into  the  world 
and  were  forgotten,  or  not  thought  worthy,  perhaps,  of  being  gathered  into  the  fold  of  the 
“gentle  shepherds”  of  Paternoster-row;  and  some  of  them  I have  caught,  and  though  they 
will  not  bear  a comparison  with  those  that  climbed  higher  up  Parnassus  in  later  years,  yet, 
as  of  the  same  stock  that  became  so  famous,  there  is  interest  in  looking  at  them,  however 
much  the  breed  was  afterwards  improved.  But,  imagery  apart,  we  like  to  see  the  first 
attempts  of  genius ; and  the  early  specimens  of  the  muse  of  Moore,  that  follow,  will  not  be 
unacceptable  when  looked  upon  in  the  light  they  are  presented.  The  song  that  follows 
derives  an  additional  interest  from  the  name  that  it  celebrates,  as  we  may  infer  it  was 
addressed  to  that  lovely  and  amiable  woman  who  awaked  the  rapturous  adoration  of  his 
youth,  and  was  the  solace  of  his  age. 

Sweetest  love,  I’ll  ne’er  forget  tlice, 

Time  shall  only  teach  my  heart 
Fonder,  warmer,  to  regret  thee, 

Lovely,  gentle,  as  thon  art ! 

Farewell,  Bessy! 

We  may  meet  again. 

2* 


10 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Yes,  oh!  yes,  again  ■•.ye’ll  meet,  love, 
And  repose  our  hearts  at  last ; 

Oh  ! sure  ’twill  then  be  sweet,  love 
Calm  to  think  on  sorrow  past. 

Farewell,  Bessy ! 

We  may  meet  again. 

Yet  I feel  my  heart  is  breaking, 
When  I think  I stray  trom  thee, 
Bound  the  world  that  quiet  seeking 
Which  I fear  is  not  for  me  ! 

Farewell,  Bessy ! 

We  may  meet  again. 

Calm  to  peace  thy  lover’s  bosom — 
Can  it,  dearest,  must  it  be, 

Thou  within  an  hour  wilt  lose  him, — 
He  for  ever  loses  thee  ? 

Farewell,  Bessy! 

Yet,  oh ! not  for  ever. 


MILD  M A B L E KELLY.* 

Carolan.  Bom  1G70.  Died  1733.  Translated  by  Samuel  Ferguson 

Turlogh  O'Carolan,  bom  at  Nobber  in  the  county  of  Westmeath,  may  be  looked  upon  as 
the  last  of  the  race  of  the  ancient  bards  of  Ireland.  When  we  consider  that  he  lost  his 
sight  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  from  smallpox,  which  bereft  him  of  the  use  of  books,  it  is  sur- 
prising what  an  air  of  literary  accomplishment,  and  how  much  refinement  pervade  his 
compositions.  When  we  remember  the  country  he  lived  in  had  been  recently  devastated  by 
civil  war,  it  is  evident  the  mingled  mirthfulness  and  tenderness  of  his  effusions  sprang  from 
innate  inspiration,  not  from  the  “ form  and  pressure”  of  the  time.  Though  he  is  more 
generally  known  by  his  music  than  by  his  poetry,  the  latter  was  of  such  a high  standard,  in 
the  opinion  of  Goldsmith,  who,  in  his  boyhood  saw  Carolan,  and  in  later  life  wrot  e about 
him,  that  he  said  “ his  songs  may  be  compared  to  those  of  Pindar,  they  having  the  same 
flight  of  imagination.”  The  works  of  Carolan,  taken  altogether,  display  a wonderful  ferti- 
lity of  invention,  and,  being  the  last  of  the  bards,  we  may  well  apply  to  him  the  often- 
quoted 

“Tho’  last  not  least.” 

Limited  space  forbids  saying  more  about  one  of  whom  so  much  might  be  said;  so,  without 
further  preface,  wp  give  one  of  his  songs  which  fully  sustains  his  own  reputation  and  that  of 
his  country. 

* There  are  three  versions  of  this  famous  song one  by  Miss  Brooke,  in  her  “ Reliques 
of  Irish  Poetry,”  and  another  in  “Hardiman’s  Minstrelsy;”  bpt}  as  in  many  other  instances, 
Mr.  Ferguson’s  translation  is  far  the  best? 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


11 


Whoever  the  youth  who,  by  heaven’s  decree, 

Has  his  happy  right  hand  ’neath  that  bright  head  of  thine, 
’Tis  certain  that  he 
From  all  sorrow  is  free, 

Till  the  day  of  his  death : — if  a life  so  divine 
Should  not  raise  him  in  bliss  above  mortal  degree. 

Mild  Mable  Ni  Kelly,  bright  coolun*  of  curls  ! 

All  stately  and  pure  as  the  swan  on  the  lake, 

Her  mouth  of  white  teeth  is  a palace  of  pearls, 

And  the  youth  of  the  land  are  love-sick  for  her  sake. 

No  strain  of  the  sweetest  e’er  heard  in  the  land 

That  she  knows  not  to  sing  in  a voice  so  enchanting, 

That  the  cranes  on  the  sand 
F all  asleep  where  they  stand ; 

Oh,  for  her  blooms  the  rose,  and  the  lily  ne’er  wanting 
To  shed  its  mild  lustre  on  bosom  or  hand. 

The  dewy  blue  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  spray, 

More  blue  than  her  eyes  human  eye  never  saw ; 

Deceit  never  lurked  in  its  beautiful  ray — 

Dear  lady,  I drink  to  you,  slainte  go  bragh  .'f 

To  gaze  on  her  beauty  the  young  hunter  lies 

’Mong  the  branches  that  shadow  her  path  in  the  grove  ; 
But,  alas  ! if  her  eyes 
The  rash  gazer  surprise. 

All  eyesight  departs  from  the  victim  of  love, 

And  the  blind  youth  steals  home  with  his  heart  full  of  sighs. 
Oh,  pride  of  the  Gael,  of  the  lily-white  palm, 

Oh,  coolun  of  curls  to  the  grass  at  your  feet ; 

At  the  goal  of  delight  and  of  honor  I am, 

To  boast  such  a theme  for  a song  so  unmeet. 


* Coolun,  or  cuilln — head  of  hair. 

f Pronounced  softly,  Slawn-tha’  go  bra,  meaning  “ Save  you,  or  health  to  you  for  ever.” 

The  lady,  thus  celebrated,  was  of  the  family  of  Castle  Kelly  in  the  Coun'y  of  Galway. 
What  a charming  touch  of  poetry,  is  that  of  the  young  hunter  hiding  to  get  a glance  at  this 
radiant  beauty — and  the  consequence  that  follows — he  is  dazzled  even  to  the  loss  of  vision, 

“ And  the  blind  youth  steals  home  with  his  heart  full  of  sighs.” 

This  is  the  more  touching,  when  we  remember  it  was  a blind  poet  who  wrote  it : — how 
often  did  he  himself  steal  home  with  his  heart  full  of  sighs  ? Carolan  thus  makes  a direct 
allusion  to  his  blindness  in  a passage  translated  by  Miss  Brooke. 

“ Ev’n  he  whose  hapless  eyes  no  ray 
Admit  from  beauty’s  cheering  day. 

Yet,  though  he  cannot  see  the  light. 

He  feels  it  warm,  and  knows  it  bright.” 


12 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


0,  JUDITH,  MY  DEAD! 

From  Hardiman’s  Minstrelsy.  Translated  from  the  Irish  by  Edward  Walshe. 


0,  Judith,  my  dear,  ’tis  thou  that  hast  left  me  for  dead ; 

0,  Judith,  my  dear,  thou’st  stolen  all  the  brain  in  my  head  ; 
0,  Judith,  my  dear,  thou’st  cross’d  between  Heaven  and  me, 
And  ’twere  better  be  blind  than  ever  thy  beauty  to  see  ! 

Thy  person  is  peerless — a jewel  full  fashioned  with  care, 
Thou  art  the  mild  maiden  so  modest  at  market  and  fair ; 
With  cheek  like  the  rose,  and  kiss  like  the  store  o’  the  bee, 
And  musical  tones  that  call’d  me  from  death  unto  thee ! 


CO!  FORGET  ME. 

Eev.  Charles  Wolfe.  Eon  1791.  Died  182J, 


Go,  forget  me — why  should  sorrow 
O’er  that  brow  a shadow  ding  ? 

Go,  forget  me — and  to-morrow 
Brightly  smile,  and  sweetly  sing. 
Smile — though  I shall  not  be  near  thee  : 
Sing — though  I shall  never  hear  thee : 
May  thy  soul  with  pleasure  shine, 
Lasting  as  the  gloom  of  mine. 

Like  the  sun,  thy  presence  glowing, 
Clothes  the  meanest  things  in  light, 
And  when  thou,  like  him,  art  going, 
Loveliest  objects  fade  in  night. 

All  things  looked  so  bright  about  tlicc, 
That  they  nothing  seem  without  thee, 
By  that  pure  and  lucid  mind 
Earthly  things  were  too  rebned. 

Go,  thou  vision  wildly  gleaming, 

Softly  on  my  soul  that  fell ; 

Go,  for  me  no  longer  beaming — 

Hope  and  Beauty ! fare  ye  well ! 

Go,  and  all  that  once  delighted 
Take,  and  leave  me  all  benighted ; 
Glory’s  burning — generous  swell, 
Fancy  and  the  Poet’s  shell. 


A.  PLACE  IN  THY  MEM011Y,  DEARE  JT. 

Gerald  Griffin.  Born  1S03,  Died  1810. 

Though  the  following  song  has  not  such  striking  marks  of  nationality  as  many  of 
Griffin’s,  yet  we  place  it  first  amongst  his,  in  this  collection,  as  an  extract  from  “ The 
Collegians” — that  story  of  surpassing  power  which  places  him,  we  think,  first  among  the 
novelists  of  Ireland,  and  in  the  foremost  rank  of  the  novelists  of  the  world.  Of  Gerald 
Griffin  Ireland  may  well  be  proud ; for  he  was  not  only  a great  novelist,  but  a good 
dramatist.  His  Gisippus  is  one  of  the  best  plays  of  modern  times,  and  derives  an 
additional,  though  saddening  interest,  from  the  fact  that  it  was  not  produced  on  the 
stage  until  after  his  death : but  though  he  tasted  not  the  triumph  of  that  success,  his 
country  must  not  forget  it.  His  songs,  too,  are  charming ; and  the  one  that  follows, 
though  not  Irish  in  phrase,  is  peculiarly  Irish  in  feeling : there  is  in  it  depth  and  devoted- 
ness of  affection,  delicacy,  unselfishness— in  short,  a chivalrous  adoration. 

A place  in  tliy  memory,  dearest, 

Is  all  that  I claim ; 

To  pause,  and  look  back,  when  th  on  hearcst 
The  sound  of  my  name. 

Another  may  woo  thee,  nearer, 

Another  may  win  and  wear  ; 

I care  not  though  he  he  dearer, 

If  I am  remembered  there. 


14 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Remember  me — not  as  a lover 
Whose  hope  was  cross’d; 

Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 
The  light  it  hath  lost : 

As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mother 
She  loves,  though  she  never  may  see ; 

As  a sister  remembers  a brother, 

Oh  ! dearest,  remember  me. 

Could  1 be  thy  true  lover,  dearest, 

Could’ st  thou  smile  on  me, 

I would  be  the  fondest  and  nearest, 

That  ever  loved  thee  ! 

But  a cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming, 
That  never  must  burst  upon  thine  ; 

And  heaven,  that  made  thee  all  blooming, 
Ne’er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

Remember  me  then — 0 remember 
My  calm,  light  love  : 

Though  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 
My  life  may  prove, 

That  life  will,  though  lonely,  be  sweet, 

If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 

A smile  and  kind  word  when  we  meet, 
And  a place  in  thy  memory. 


MY  MOTHER  DEAR. 

Samuel  Loved. 

There  was  a place  in  childhood  that  I remember  well, 

And  there  a voice  of  sweetest  tone  bright  fairy  tales  did  tell, 

And  gentle  words  and  fond  embrace  were  giv’n  with  joy  to  me, 
When  I was  in  that  happy  place : — upon  my  mother’s  knee. 

When  fairy  tales  were  ended,  “ good  night,”  she  softly  said, 

And  kiss’d  and  laid  me  down  to  sleep,  within  my  tiny  bed  ; 

And  holy  words  she  taught  me  there — methinks  I yet  can  see 
Her  angel  eyes,  as  close  I knelt  beside  my  mother’s  knee. 

In  the  sickness  of  my  childhood ; the  perils  of  my  prime ; 

The  sorrows  of  my  riper  years ; the  cares  of  ev’ry  time  ; 

When  doubt  and  danger  weigh’d  me  down — then  pleading,  all  for  me, 
It  was  a fervent  pray’r  to  Heaven  that  bent  my  mother’s  knee. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


15 


SLEEP  ON. 

Jonir  O’Keeffe.  Bom  1746. 

Dublin  was  the  birthplace  of  O’Keeffe.  The  O’Keeffes,  an  ancient  and  honourable 
family,  lost  their  estates  in  the  civil  wars  of  James  and  William.  Our  author  was  reared 
for  the  priesthood;  — objected  to  go  into  orders;  — became  very  nearly  a professional 
painter ;— turned  actor  next,  and,  finally,  dramatist  of  prolific  pen,— he  having  produced 
forty-nine  pieces.  He  lost  his  sight  in  1800.  Many  of  his  songs  are  graceful,  though  never 
rising  to  any  great  excellence : they  were  never  intended,  however,  to  be  more  than  inci- 
dental to  his  dramas.  The  following  is  from  “ The  Poor  Soldier.”  The  air  to  which  it  was 
written  is  a beautiful  old  Irish  melody,  entitled,  Ulican  dulh  oh!  given  in  Bunting’s 
“Ancient  Music  of  Ireland.”  To  the  same  air  Moore  wrote  “ Weep  on,  weep  on !” 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  my  Katlileen  dear, 

May  peace  possess  thy  breast ; 

Yet  dost  thou  dream  thy  true  love’s  here. 

Deprived  of  peace  and  rest  ? 

The  birds  sing  sweet,  the  morning  breaks, 

These  joys  are  none  to  me  ; 

Though  sleep  is  tied,  poor  Dermot  wakes 
To  none  but  love  and  thee. 


TIIE  MOUNTAIN  DEW. 

Samuel  Lovee. 

By  yon  mountain  tipp’d  with  cloud, 

By  the  torrent  foaming  loud, 

By  the  dingle  where  the  purple  bells  of  heather  grew, 

Where  the  Alpine  tlow’rs  are  hid, 

And  where  bounds  the  nimble  kid, 

There  we  wandered  both  together  through  the  mountain  dew ! 

With  what  delight  in  summer’s  night  we  trod  the  twilight  gloom, 
The  air  so  full  of  fragrance  from  the  flowers  so  full  of  bloom, 
And  our  hearts  so  full  of  joy — for  aught  else  there  was  no  room, 
As  we  wandered  both  together  through  the  mountain  dew. 

Those  sparkling  gems  that  rest 
On  the  mountain’s  flow’ry  breast 
Are  like  the  joys  we  number — they  are  bright  and  few, 

Eor  a while  to  earth  are  given, 

And  are  called  again  to  heaven, 

When  the  spirit  of  the  morning  steals  the  mountain  dew : 

But  memory,  angelic,  makes  a heaven  on  earth  for  men, 

Her  rosy  light  recalleth  bright  the  dew-drops  back  again, 

The  warmth  of  love  exhales  them  from  that  well-remembered  glen, 
Where  we  wandered  both  together  through  the  mountain  dew  ! 


I LOYE  MY  LOVE  IN  THE  MORNING. 

Gerale  Griffin. 

I loye  my  love  in  the  morning 
For  she  like  morn  is  fair, — 

Her  blushing  cheek,  its  crimson  streak, 

Its  clouds,  her  golden  hair. 

Her  glance,  its  beam,  so  soft  and  kind  ; 

Her  tears,  its  dew  y showers  ; 

And  her  voice,  the  tender  whispering  wind 
That  stirs  the  early  bowers. 

I love  my  love  in  the  morning, 

I love  my  love  at  noon, 

For  she  is  bright,  as  the  lord  of  light, 

Yet  mild  as  autumn’s  moon  : 

Her  beauty  is  my  bosom’s  sun, 

Her  faith  my  fostering  shade, 

And  I will  love  my  darling  one, 

Till  even  the  sun  shall  fade. 


SONGS  of  the  affections. 


17 


I love  my  love  in  the  morning, 

I love  my  love  at  even  ; 

Her  smile’s  soft  play  is  like  the  ray, 
That  lights  the  western  heaven  : 

I loved  her  when  the  sun  was  high, 
I loved  her  when  he  rose  ; 

But,  best  of  all  when  evening’s  sigh 
Was  murmuring  at  its  close. 


FORGIVE,  BUT  DON’T  FORGET. 

From  “ Songs  and  Ballads,”  by  Samuel  Loveb. 

I’m  going,  Jessie,  far  from  thee, 

To  distant  lands  beyond  the  sea ; 

I would  not,  Jessie,  leave  thee  now, 

With  anger’s  cloud  upon  thy  brow. 
Remember  that  thy  mirthful  friend 
Might  sometimes  teaze — but  ne’er  offend  ; 
That  mirthful  friend  is  sad  the  while : 

Oh,  Jessie,  give  a parting  smile. 

Ah ! why  should  friendship  harshly  chide 
Our  little  faults  on  either  side  ? 

From  friends  we  love,  we  bear  with  those, 
As  thorns  are  pardon’d  for  the  rose. 

The  honey-bee,  on  busy  wing, 

Producing  sweets,  yet  bears  a sting ; 

The  purest  gold  most  needs  alloy  ; 

And  sorrow  is  the  nurse  of  joy. 

Then,  oh,  forgive  me,  ere  I part, 

And  if  some  corner  in  thy  heart 
For  absent  friend  a place  might  be — 

Ah,  keep  that  little  place  for  me ! 

“ Forgive — Forget,”  we’re  wisely  told, 

Is  held  a maxim,  good  and  old, 

But  half  the  maxim’s  better  yet, — 

Then,  oh,  forgive,  but  don't  forget! 


This  song  was  written  as  a musical  illustration  to  a portion  of  a lecture,  where  a passage 
occurred  setting  forth  that  the  heart  is  particularly  open  to  gentle  impressions  at  the  part- 
ing hour.  The  lecturer  then  glanced  at  the  various  ways  in  which  the  same  natural  sensa- 
tions will  influence  different  people,  and  how  different  classes  of  society  have  their  peculiar 
phases  of  thought  and  feeling ; and  as  the  foregoing  song  represented  the  sentiment  of  the 
drawing-room,  I sought,  in  the  following  one,  the  contrast  of  the  cottage. 


18 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


MOTHER,  HE’S  GOING  AWAY. 

Samuel  Loveb. 

Mother. 

Now,  what  are  you  crying  for,  Nelly? 

Don’t  be  blubberin’  there,  like  a fool — 

With  the  weight  o’  the  grief,  ’faith  I tell  you, 
You’ll  break  down  the  three-legged  stool. 

I suppose,  now,  you’re  crying  for  Barney, 

But  don’t  b’lieve  a word  that  he’d  say, 

He  tells  nothin’  but  big  lies  and  blarney — 

Sure  you  know  how  he  sarv’d  poor  Kate  Kearney. 

Daughter . 

. But,  mother — 

Mother . 

Oh,  bother ! 


Daughter. 

But,  mother,  he’s  going  away ; 

And  I dreamt  th’  other  night, 

Of  his  ghost  all  in  white — 

Oh,  mother,  he’s  going  away ! 

Mother. 

If  he’s  goin’  away,  all  the  betther — 

Blessed  hour  when  he’s  out  of  your  sight ! 
There’s  one  comfort — you  can’t  get  a letther, — 
For  yiz  neither  can  read  or  can  write. 

Sure,  ’twas  only  last  week  you  protested, 

Since  he  coorted  fat  Jinny  M’Cray, 

That  the  sight  of  the  scamp  you  detested — 
With  abuse,  sure,  your  tongue  never  rested — 

Daughter. 

But,  mother — 


Mother . 

Oh,  bother ! 


Daughter. 

But,  mother,  he’s  going  away, 
And  I dream  of  his  ghost ; 

W alking  round  my  bedpost — • 
Oh,  mother,  he’s  going  away! 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


19 


HOURS  LIKE  THOSE. 

Callanatt.  Born,  1795.  Died,  1829. 

James  Joseph  Callanan  was  born  in  the  county,  if  not  in  the  city  of  Cork.  Being  des- 
tined for  the  priesthood,  he  was  sent  to  Maynooth  College,  but  feeling  little  sympathy 
for  the  clerical  vocation,  he  quitted  that  establishment  in  1816.  He  pursued  hi3 
classical  studies,  afterwards,  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  gained  there  two  poetic 
prizes.  One  may  suppose  he  was  of  that  dreamy  nature  which  so  often  unfits  the  pos- 
sessor for  the  active  pursuits  of  life,  for  Callanan  seems  never  to  have  settled  down  to  any. 
He  is  described,  too,  as  of  a procrastinating  disposition,  acting  on  the  system  of  that  noble 
lord  who  would  “never  do  anything  to-day  he  could  possibly  put  off  till  to-morrow.”  He 
was  a great  favourite  in  society,  and  this  helped  to  idle  him  also,  the  call  of  social 
pleasure  having  for  him  a Siren  voice.  Only  one  thing  could  draw  him  from  that  fascina- 
tion, and  that  was  his  deeper  love  for  the  beauties  of  nature ; and  it  is  quite  touching  to 
find  in  his  memoirs  how  he  was  wont  to  rush  back,  time  after  time,  to  the  mountain 
region  of  South  Munster,  and  wander  alone  through  its  wild  scenery,  on  which  his 
poetic  fancy  feasted,  and  which  he  has  so  beautifully  described  in  his  ode  to  “ Gougane 
Barra,”  given  in  this  volume.  He  left  Ireland  in  1827  in  a bad  state  of  health,  and  resided 
in  Lisbon  for  two  years ; but  his  health  still  declined,  and  in  1829  he  embarked  to  return 
to  Ireland,  wishing  to  breathe  his  last  in  his  native  land.  But  the  wish  was  not  gratified. 
Symptoms  of  dissolution  set  in  before  the  vessel  sailed,  and  he  was  put  on  shore,  and  died 
at  Lisbon  in  his  thirty-fourth  year. 

Hours  like  those  I spent  with  yon, 

So  bright,  so  passing,  and  so  few, 

May  never  bless  me  more — farewell ! 

My  heart  can  feel,  but  dare  not  tell, 

The  rapture  of  those  hours  of  light 

Thus  snatched  from  sorrow’s  cheerless  night. 

’Tis  not  thy  cheek’s  soft  blended  hue ; 

’Tis  not  thine  eye  of  heavenly  blue  ; 

’Tis  not  the  radiance  of  thy  brow, 

That  thus  would  win  or  charm  me  now ; 

It  is  thy  heart’s  warm  light,  that  glows 
Like  sunbeams  on  December  snows. 

It  is  thy  wit,  that  flashes  bright 
As  lightning  on  a stormy  night, 

Illuming  e’en  the  clouds  that  roll 
Along  the  darkness  of  my  soul, 

And  bidding,  with  an  angel’s  voice, 

The  heart,  that  knew  no  joy — rejoice.* 

* I cannot,  even  at  the  risk  of  being  considered  intrusive,  resist  noticing  the  great 
beauty  of  this  exquisitely  musical  couplet: — 

“ And  bidding,  with  an  angel's  voice. 

The  heart , that  knew  no  joy — rejoice .” 


20 


SONGS  or  TILE  AFFECTIONS. 


Too  late  we  met — too  soon  we  part ; 

Yet  dearer  to  my  soul  tliou  art 

Than  some  whose  love  has  grown  with  years, 

Smiled  with  my  smile,  and  wept  my  tears. 

F arewell ! hut,  absent,  thou  shalt  seem 
The  vision  of  some  heavenly  dream, 

Too  bright  on  child  of  earth  to  dwell : 

It  must  be  so — my  friend,  farewell ! 


KATHLEEN  O’MORE. 

George  Nugent  Keynoeds. 


My  love,  still  I think  that  I see  her  once  more, 

But,  alas ! she  has  left  me  her  loss  to  deplore — 

My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O’More ! 

Her  hair  glossy  black,  her  eyes  were  dark  blue, 

Her  colour  still  changing,  her  smiles  ever  new — 

So  pretty  was  Kathleen,  my  sweet  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O’More! 

She  milk’d  the  dun  cow,  that  ne’er  offered  to  stir, 

Though  wicked  to  all,  it  was  gentle  to  her — ■ 

So  kind  was  my  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O’More ! 

She  sat  at  the  door  one  cold  afternoon, 

To  hear  the  wind  blow,  and  to  gaze  on  the  moon — 

So  pensive  was  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O’More ! 

Cold  was  the  night-breeze  that  sigh’d  round  her  bow’r, 

It  chill’d  my  poor  Kathleen,  she  droop’d  from  that  hour ; 

And  I lost  my  poor  Kathleen,  my  own  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O’More ! 

The  bird  of  all  birds  that  I love  the  best 

Is  the  robin,  that  in  the  church-yard  builds  his  nest — 

For  he  seems  to  watch  Kathleen,  hops  lightly  o’er  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O’More. 


The  air  to  which  this  is  sung  is  singularly  sweet  and  plaintive.  The  song  is  still  popular, 
I believe,  in  Ireland.  It  was  once  extremely  so. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


21 


PEGGY  BROWNE.* 

Carolan.  Translated  by  Thomas  Furlong. 

Oh,  dark,  sweetest  girl,  are  my  days  doomed  to  be, 

While  my  heart  bleeds  in  silence  and  sorrow  for  thee  : 

In  the  green  spring  of  life,  to  the  grave  I go  down, 

Oh ! shield  me,  and  save  me,  my  lov’d  Peggy  Browne. 

I dreamt  that  at  evening  my  footsteps  were  bound 
To  yon  deep  spreading  wood  where  the  shades  fall  around, 
I sought,  midst  new  scenes,  all  my  sorrows  to  drown, 

But  the  cure  of  my  grief  rests  with  thee  Peggy  Browne. 

’Tis  soothing,  sweet  maiden,  thy  accents  to  hear, 

F or,  like  wild  fairy  music,  they  melt  on  the  ear, 

Thy  breast  is  as  fair  as  the  swan’s  clothed  in  down; 

Oh,  peerless,  and  perfect’s  my  own  Peggy  Browne. 

Dear,  dear  is  the  bark  to  its  own  cherished  tree, 

But  dearer,  far  dearer,  is  my  lov’d  one  to  me  :f 
In  my  dreams  I draw  near  her,  uncheck’d  by  a frown, 

But  my  arms  spread  in  vain  to  embrace  Peggy  Browne. 


* Daughter  of  George  Browne,  of  Brownestown,  County  of  Mayo.  The  noble  houses  of 
Sligo  and  Kilmain,  and  the  families  of  Castlemagarat  and  Brownestown,  in  Mayo,  are  now 
among  the  principal  of  the  name. — Note  from  Hardiman’s  Minstrelsy. 

f Carolan  anticipates  Burns  in  this  image,  and  how  forcible  the  image  is for  the  bark 
is  not  only  closely  attached  to,  but  is  essential  to  the  very  life  of  the  tree.  The  image  is 
employed  by  Bums  in  his  admirable  song,  “My  Tocher’s  the  jewel,”  but  not  so  pleasantly 
nor  so  happily  as  by  Carolan. 

“ Ye’re  like  the  timmer  o’  yon  rotten  wood. 

Ye’re  like  the  bark  o’  yon  rotten  tree.” 

The  tautology  weakens  the  effect. 


’BE  N-EIRINN  I.t 

From  the  Irish. 

In  Druid  vale  alone  I lay, 

Oppressed  with  care,  to  weep  the  day— 
My  death  I ow’d  one  sylph-like  she, 

Of  witchery  rare,  ’Be  n-Eirinn  i ! 


X Meaning  “Whoe’er  she  be  in  Ireland.” 


22 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


The  spouse  of  Naisi,*  Erin’s  woe — 

The  dame  that  laid  proud  Ilium  low, 

Their  charms  would  fade,  their  fame  would  lice, 
Match’d  with  my  fair,  ’be  n-Eirinn  i ! 

Behold  her  tresses  unconfin’d, 

In  wanton  ringlets  woo  the  wind,  j 
Or  sweep  the  sparkling  dew-drops  free, 

My  heart’s  dear  maid,  ’be  n-Eirinn  i ! 

Fierce  passion’s  slave,  from  hope  exil’d, 

Weak,  wounded,  weary,  woful,  wild — 

Some  magic  spell  she  wove  for  me, 

That  peerless  maid,  ’be  n-Eirinn  i! 

But  0 ! one  noon  I clomb  a hill, 

To  sigh  alone — to  weep  my  fill, 

And  there  Heaven’s  mercy  brought  to  me 
My  treasure  rare,  ’be  n-Eirinn  i ! 

* Deirdre. 

f Keminding  us  of  Byron’s  couplet  in  his  address  to  the  “Maid  of  Athens.” 
“ By  those  tresses  unconfin’d 
Woo’d  by  the  iEgean  wind.” 


ANNIE  DEAll. 

Thomas  Davis.  Born  1814.  Died  1845. 

Mr.  Davis’s  verses  are  always  imbued  with  the  spirit  befitting  the  subject  he  treats  of. 
Appreciation  of  beauty,  and  depth  of  tenderness,  are  in  his  love  songs,  and  a passionate 
enthusiasm  in  his  patriotic,  sometimes  bordering  on  fierceness,  which  many  thought 
marred  their  usefulness,  and  which  often  precludes  their  quotation. 

Oue,  mountain  brooks  were  rushing, 

Annie,  dear, 

The  Autumn  eve  was  flushing, 

Annie,  dear; 

But  brighter  was  your  blushing, 

When  first,  your  murmurs  hushing, 

I told  my  love  outgushing, 

Annie,  dear. 

Ah ! but  our  hopes  were  splendid, 

Annie,  dear, 

How  sadly  they  have  ended, 

Annie,  dear; 

The  ring  betwixt  us  broken, 

When  our  vows  of  love  were  spoken, 

Of  your  poor  heart  was  a token, 

Annie,  dear. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


23 


The  primrose  flowers  were  shining, 

Annie,  dear, 

When,  on  my  breast  reclining, 

Annie,  dear, 

Began  our  mi  na  media  * 

And  many  a month  did  follow 
Of  joy — But  life  is  hollow, 

Annie,  dear. 

For  once,  when  home  returning, 

Annie,  dear, 

I found  our  cottage  burning, 

Annie,  dear: 

Around  it  were  the  yeomen,  f 
Of  every  ill  an  omen — 

The  country’s  hitter  foemen, 

Annie,  dear. 

But  why  arose  a morrow, 

Annie,  dear, 

Upon  that  night  of  sorrow, 

Annie,  dear  ? 

Far  better,  by  thee  lying, 

Their  bayonets  defying, 

Than  live  an  exile  sighing, 

Annie,  dear. 

* Honeymoon.  The  rhyme  will  indicate  that  the  sound  of  the  letter  e is  nearly  lost  in 
the  word  “ meala .”  Be  it  observed,  also,  the  first  letter  of  the  Irish  alphabet  has  a broad 
sound. 

t This  alludes  to  the  year  1798,  when  the  yeomanry  were  held  in  great  detestation  by 
the  people ; indeed,  except  for  external  defence,  yeomanry  is  now  considered  a bad  military 
enginery.  In  civil  embroilment  they  carry  party  passion  instead  of  duty  into  the  office  of 
the  soldier,  and  serve  rather  to  increase  than  suppress  commotion.  This  is  the  feeling  in 
England  as  well  as  in  Ireland.  Witness  the  affair  of  “Peterloo,”  (or  St.  Peter’s  Field)  at 
Manchester,  A.  I).  1819. 

CAN  I AGAIN  THAT  LOOK  HEGALL. 

Moore. 

Can  I again  tbat  look  recall 

Which  once  could  make  me  die  for  theo  ? 

No,  no,  the  eye  that  burns  on  all 
Shall  never  more  be  prized  by  me. 

Can  I again  that  form  caress, 

Or  on  that  lip  in  joy  recline? 

No,  no,  the  lip  that  all  may  press 
Shall  never  more  be  press’d  by  mine. 


THE  ANGEL’S  WHISPER. 

From  “ Songs  and  Ballads”  of  Samuel  Loves. 

A superstition  of  great  beauty  prevails  in  Ireland,  that,  when  a child  smiles  in  its  sleep, 
it  is  “talking  with  the  angels.” 

A baby  was  sleeping, 

Its  mother  was  weeping, 

For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging  sea, 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling 
Round  the  fisherman’s  dwelling, 

And  she  cried,  “ Dermot,  darling,  oh ! come  hack  to  me.” 

Her  heads  while  she  numbered, 

The  baby  still  slumbered, 

And  smiled  in  her  face,  as  she  bended  her  knee ; 

Oh  ! bless’ d he  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 

For  I know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


25 


And  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o’er  thy  sleeping, 

Oh,  pray  to  them  softly  my  baby,  with  me, 

And  say  thou  would’ st  rather 
They’d  watch  o’er  thy  father  ! 

For  I know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee. 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 
Saw  Dermot  returning, 

And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe’s  father  to  see, 

And  closely  caressing 
Her  child,  with  a blessing, 

Said,  “ I knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with  thee.” 

I have  abstained  from  inserting  many  of  my  own  songs  in  this  collection,  to  avoid  the 
suspicion  of  parental  preference.  I give  only  those  (with  very  few  exceptions)  which, 
having  attained  popularity,  are  thus  guaranteed  by  the  highest  seal  that  can  substantiate 
their  right  to  appear  in  a collection  of  Irish  Songs.  The  song  given  above  was  written 
to  an  old  Irish  air  (one  of  the  few  Moore  left  untouched)  entitled  “Mary  do  you 
fancy  me?  ” Words  had  been  written  to  it  in  “ Holden’s  Periodical  Irish  Melodies,”  but 
they  were  ineffective,  and  left  the  air  still  in  oblivion,  while  mine  had  better  fortune,  and 
made  this  charming  melody  widely  known  j and  I think  it  may  be  allowed  to  be  pardonably 
pleasing  to  an  author  that  it  is  now  known  by  the  name  of  “ The  Angel’s  Whisper.” 
The  works  of  Moore  have  shown  how  much  the  musician  may  be  indebted  to  the  poet,  and 
I have  entered  more  extensively  into  that  question,  in  a note  to  “ The  Boys  of  Kilkenny,” 
to  which  I beg  to  refer  the  reader. 


YOUNG  KATE  OF  KILCUMMER. 

Theke  are  flowers  in  tbe  valley, 

And  fruit  on  tbe  bill, 

Sweet-scented  and  smiling, 

Resort  where  you  will ; 

But  tbe  sweetest  and  brightest 
In  spring  time  or  summer, 

Is  tbe  girl  of  my  heart, 

The  young  Kate  of  Kilcummer. 

Ob ! I’d  wander  from  daybreak 
Till  night’s  gloomy  fall, 

Full  sure  such  another 
I’d  ne’er  meet  at  all : — 

As  the  rose  to  the  bee, 

As  the  sunshine  to  summer, 

So  welcome  to  me 
Is  young  Kate  of  Kilcummer, 

Kilcummer  is  in  the  County  of  Cork,  on  the  east  side  of  the  river  Awbcg.  It  has  been 
asserted  this  song  is  a translation  from  the  Irish,  but  I agree  with  T.  C.  Croker  in  doubt- 
ing it. 


3 


26 


SONGS  or  THE  AFFECTIONS* 


THE  NIGHT  WAS  STILL. 

Callanan. 

The  night  was  still,  the  air  was  halm, 

Soft  dews  around  were  weeping  ; 

No  whisper  rose  o’er  ocean’s  calm, 

Its  waves  in  light  were  sleeping ; 

With  Mary  on  the  beach  I strayed, 

The  stars  beam’d  joys  above  me  ; 

I press’d  her  hand,  and  said,  “ Sweet  maid, 

Oh ! tell  me  do  you  love  me?” 

With  modest  air  she  drooped  her  head, 

Her  cheek  of  beauty  veiling  ; 

Her  bosom  heav’d — no  word  she  said ; 

I mark’d  her  strife  of  feeling ; 

“ Oh  speak  my  doom,  dear  maid,”  I cried, 

“By  yon  bright  heaven  above  thee 

She  gently  raised  her  eyes,  and  sighed, 

“ Too  well  you  know  I love  thee.” 

The  sentiment  reminds  us,  but  without  suggesting,  in  the  least,  a plagiarism,  of  those 
sweet  lines  of  the  Scottish  muse — 

“ Dinna  ask  me  gin  I luve  thee, 

Deed  I darcna  tell ; 

Dinna  ask  me  gin  I luve  thee. 

Ask  it  o’  yoursel’.”  . 

Buchan’s  Minstrelsy  of  the  North  of  Scotland. 


THE  MAID  OE  BALLYHAUNIS. 

From  the  Irish. 

Mr.  Hardiman,  in  the  “ Minstrelsy,”  says  this  song  was  composed  by  a friar  of  the  Mo- 
nastery of  Ballyhaunis,  who  fell  in  love  with  a beautiful  girl  of  that  place ; but  the  late 
Mr.  Edward  Walshe,  the  translator,  says— “ With  every  respect  for  the  superior  information 
of  Mr,  Hardiman,  I beg  to  say  that  this  lyric,  so  creditable  to  the  poetic  genius  of  Con- 
naught, and  which  stands  forth  among  the  happiest  efforts  of  the  pastoral  muse  of  Ireland, 
was,  in  all  likelihood,  written  by  a youthful  student  of  the  monastery,  as  the  second  stanza 
bears  clear  proof  that  the  lover  is  one  not  arrived  at  manhood,  and  who  is  subject  to  his 
father’s  control.” 

My  Mary  dear  ! for  thee  I die 

0 ! place  thy  hand  iu  mine,  love — 

My  fathers  here  were  chieftains  high, 

Then  to  my  plaints  incline,  love. 

0,  Plaited-hair  ! that  now  we  were 
In  wedlock’s  band  united, 

For,  maiden  mine,  in  grief  I’ll  pine, 

Until  our  vows  are  plighted ! 


21 


Boston  golliqi  librabit 

chestnut  hill,  mass. 

SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTION'S. 

Thou,  Rowan-bloom,  since  thus  I rove, 

All  worn  and  faint  to  greet  thee, 

Come  to  these  arms,  my  constant  love, 

With  love  as  true  to  meet  me ! 

Alas ! my  head — its  wits  are  lied, 

I’ve  failed  in  filial  duty — 

My  sire  did  say,  “ Shun,  shun,  for  aye 
That  Ballyhaunis  beauty !” 

But  thy  Cuilin  ban*  I mark’d  one  day, 

Where  the  blooms  of  the  bean-field  cluster, 

Thy  bosom  white  like  ocean’s  spray, 

Thy  cheek  like  rowan-fruit’s  lustre, 

Thy  tones  that  shame  the  wild  birds’  fame 
Which  sing  in  the  summer  weather — 

And  0 ! I sigh  that  thou,  love,  and  I 
Steal  not  from  this  world  together ! 

If  with  thy  lover  thou  depart 

To  the  Land  of  Ships,  f my  fair  love, 

Ho  weary  pain  of  head  or  heart, 

Shall  haunt  our  slumbers  there,  love — 

0 ! haste  away,  ere  cold  death’s  prey, 

My  soul  from  thee  withdrawn  is ; 

And  my  hope’s  reward,  the  churchyard  sward, 

In  the  town  of  Ballyhaunis ! 

• Cuilin  Ian,  fair  flowing  hair, 
t Neither  Mr.  Hardiman  nor  Mr.  Walshe  make  any  observation  on  the  phrase  “ Land  of 
Ships,”  and  it  cannot  with  certainty  now  be  said  what  place  was  originally  indicated  by  it. 
The  term  would  eminently  apply  to  England:  but  Spain  would  have  been  a more  likely 
place  of  refuge  to  the  Irish  Eoman  Catholic  fugitives ; and  Spain  of  old  was  a great  mari- 
time power.  Besides,  there  was  a constant  communication  between  the  West  of  Ireland 
and  Spain. 


CEASE,  OH,  CEASE  TO  TEMPT. 

Moobe. 

Cease,  oh,  cease  to  tempt  my  tender  heart  to  love ; 
It  never,  never  can,  so  wild  a flame  approve ; 

All  its  joys  and  pains 
To  others  I resign  ; 

But  be  the  vacant  heart, 

The  careless  bosom,  mine. 

Then  cease,  oh,  cease,  &c. 

Say,  oh ! say  no  more  that  lovers’  pains  are  sweet — 
I never,  never  can,  believe  the  fond  deceit. 

Thou  lov’st  the  wounded  heart, 

I love  to  wander  free  ; 

So  keep  thou  Cupid’s  dart, 

And  leave  his  wings  for  me. 


28 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


GILLE  MA  CHREE. 


Gerald  Griffin'. 

Gills  ma  chree* 

Sit  down  by  me, 

"We  now  are  joined,  and  ne’er  shall  sever, 
This  hearth’s  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 

And  peace  is  ours  for  ever ! 

When  I was  poor, 

Your  father’s  door 

Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover. 
With  care  and  pain, 

I tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover. 

I said,  ‘ To  other  lands  I’ll  roam, 

‘ Where  fate  may  smile  on  me,  love  ; ’ 

I said,  ‘ Farewell,  my  own  old  home  !’ 

And  I said,  ‘ Farewell  to  thee,  love ! y 
Sing  Gille  ma  chree , fyc. 

I might  have  said, 

My  mountain  maid, 

Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover 
I know  a spot, 

A silent  cot, 

Your  friends  can  ne’er  discover, 

Where  gently  flows  the  waveless  tide 
By  one  small  garden  only  ; 

Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings  so  wide, 
And  the  linnet  sings  so  lonely  ! 

Sing  Gille  ma  chree , fyc, 

I might  have  said, 

My  mountain  maid, 

A father’s  right  was  never  given 
True  hearts  to  curse 
With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blest  in  heaven. 

But  then,  I said,  ‘ In  after  years, 

When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her ! 
My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends,  thus  left  behind  her.’ 

Sing  Gille  ma  chree , fyc. 


* Brightener  of  my  heart. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


29 


“ Oh,  no,”  I said, 

“ My  own  dear  maid, 

For  me,  though  all  forlorn  for  ever, 

That  heart  of  thine 
Shall  ne’er  repine 
O’er  slighted  duty — never. 

From  home  and  thee  though,  wandering  far, 
A dreary  fate  he  mine,  love ; 

I’d  rather  live  in  endless  war, 

Than  buy  my  peace  with  thine,  love.” 
Sing  Gille  ma  chree,  fyc. 

Far,  far  away, 

By  night  and  day, 

I toil’d  to  win  a golden  treasure ; 

And  golden  gains 
Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 

I sought  again  my  native  land, 

Thy  father  welcomed  me,  love  ; 

I poured  my  gold  into  his  hand, 

And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love, 

Sing  Gille  ma  chree , 

Sit  down  by  me, 

We  now  are  joined,  and  ne’er  shall  sever, 
This  hearth’s  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 

And  peace  is  ours  for  ever ! 


FROM  THE  COLD  SOD  THAT’S  O’ER  YOU. 

From  the  Irish.  Translated  by  Edward  Walshe. 

Feom  the  cold  sod  that’s  o’er  you 
I never  shall  sever — 

Were  my  hands  twin’d  in  yours,  love, 

I’d  hold  them  for  ever — 

My  fondest,  my  fairest, 

We  may  now  sleep  together, 

I’ve  the  cold  earth’s  damp  odour, 

And  I’m  worn  from  the  weather ! 

This  heart,  fill’d  with  fondness, 

Is  wounded  and  weary; 

A dark  gulf  beneath  it 
Yawns  jet-black  and  dreary — 


30 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


When  death  conies,  a victor, 

In  mercy  to  greet  me, 

On  the  wings  of  the  whirlwind, 

In  the  wild  wastes  you’ll  meet  me ! 

When  the  folk  of  my  household 
Suppose  I am  sleeping, 

On  your  cold  grave,  till  morning, 

The  lone  watch  I’m  keeping ; 

My  grief  to  the  night  wind, 

F or  the  mild  maid  to  render, 

Who  was  my  betrothed 
Since  infancy  tender ! 

Remember  the  lone  night 
I last  spent  with  you,  love, 

Beneath  the  dark  sloe-tree, 

When  the  icy  wind  blew,  love — 
High  praise  to  the  Saviour 
No  sin -stain  had  found  you, 

That  your  virginal  glory 
Shines  brightly  around  you ! 

The  priests  and  the  friars 
Are  ceaselessly  chiding, 

That  I love  a young  maiden, 

In  life  not  abiding — 

0 ! I’d  shelter  and  shield  you, 

If  wild  storms  were  swelling, 

And  0 ! my  wrecked  hope, 

That  the  cold  earth’s  your  dwelling  * 

Alas,  for  your  father, 

And  also  your  mother, 

And  all  your  relations, 

Your  sister  and  brother, 

Who  gave  you  to  sorrow, 

And  the  grave  ’neath  the  willow, 
While  I crav’d  as  your  portion 
But  to  share  your  chaste  pillow ! 


THE  MOTHER’S  LAMENT. 

Gerald  Griffix. 

My  darling,  my  darling,  while  silence  is  on  the  mocr, 
And  lone  in  the  sunshine,  I sit  by  our  cabin  door ; 
When  evening  falls  quiet  and  calm  over  land  and  sea, 
My  darling,  my  darling,  I think  of  past  times  and  thee ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


31 


Here,  while  on  this  cold  shore,  I wear  ont  my  lonely  hours, 

My  child  in  the  heavens  is  spreading  my  bed  with  flowers,  * 

All  weary  my  bosom  is  grown  of'  this  friendless  clime, 

But  I long  not  to  leave  it ; for  that  were  a shame  and  crime  ; 

They  bear  to  the  church-yard  the  youth  in  their  health  away, 

I know  where  a fruit  hangs  more  ripe  for  the  grave  than  they, 
But  I wish  not  for  death,  for  my  spirit  is  all  resigned, 

And  the  hope  that  stays  with  me  gives  peace  to  my  aged  mind. 

My  darling,  my  darling,  God  gave  to  my  feeble  age, 

A prop  for  my  faint  heart,  a stay  in  my  pilgrimage  ; 

My  darling,  my  darling,  God  takes  back  his  gift  again — 

And  my  heart  may  be  broken,  but  ne’er  shall  my  will  complain. 


* This  is  but  repeating  a beautiful  saying  common  among  the  Irish  peasantry. 

The  expression  of  parental  love  and  Christian  resignation  in  this  song  is  most  touching. 
How  any  man  who  was  not  a father,  and  did  not  experience  all  that  is  expressed  in  the  last 
verse,  could  so  truly  describe  what  many  a parent  has  felt,  is  only  to  be  accounted  for  by 
the  presence  within  him  of  the  poetic  spirit  that  “ o’er-informs  the  tenement  of  clay,”  and 
can  imagine  reality. 


OH!  DON’T  YOU  REMEMBER P 


Samuel  Lover. 

Oh!  don’t  you  remember  the  beautiful  glade, 

Where  in  childhood  together  we  playfully  stray’d, 

Where  wreaths  of  wild-flowers  so  often  I made, 

Thy  tresses  so  brightly  adorning? 

Oh!  light  of  foot  and  heart  were  then 
The  happy  children  of  the  glen : — 

The  cares  that  shade  the  brows  of  men 
Ne’er  darken  childhood’s  morning. 

Oh ! who  can  forget  the  young  innocent  hours 
That  were  pass’d  in  the  shade  of  our  home’s  happy  bow’rs, 
When  the  wealth  that  we  sought  for  was  only  wild  flow’rs, 
And  we  thought  ourselves  rich  when  we  found  them? 
Oh!  where’s  the  tie  that  friends  e’er  knew, 

So  free  from  stain,  so  firm,  so  true, 

As  links  that  with  the  wild-flowers  grew, 

And  in  sweet  fetters  bound  them  p 


S 


DRY  BE  THAT  TEAR. 

Et.  Hon.  Eichabd  Bbinsley  Sheridan.  Born  1751,  Died  1816. 

The  name  of  Sheridan  was  distinguished  in  Ireland  before  the  birth  of  Eichard  Brinsley, 
first  by  his  grandfather,  Doctor  Sheridan,  the  friend  and  correspondent  of  Swift;  next  by  his 
father,  Mr.  Thomas  Sheridan,  the  competitor  of  Garrick;  but  the  glory  of  the  name  culmi- 
nated in  Eichard  Brinsley.  A dramatist  of  the  highest  order, — a charming  lyric  writer, — 
a first-rate  orator— his  name  sheds  triple  honour  on  Ireland.  Mr.  Hazlitt  (that  astute  critic) 
says,  “ Mr.  Sheridan  has  been  justly  called  a dramatic  star  of  the  first  magnitude ; and, 
indeed,  among  the  comic  writers  of  the  last  century,  he  shines  like  Hesperus  among  the 
lesser  lights.  He  has  left  four  several  dramas  behind  him,  all  different,  or  of  different  kinds, 
and  all  excellent  in  their  way.”  He  proceeds  to  a minute  criticism  on  the  various  plays,  too 
long  for  quotation,  in  a note,  but  it  may  be  remarked  that  he  calls  “ The  Duenna,”  “ a per- 
fect work  of  art;”  afterwards,  in  noticing  other  qualifications  he  possesses,  he  says, 
« Sheridan  was  not  only  an  excellent  dramatic  writer,  but  a first-rate  parliamentary  speaker. 
His  characteristics  as  an  orator  were  manly  unperverted  good  sense,  and  keen  irony.  * * 
* * No  one  was  equal  to  him  in  replying,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  to  pompous 
absurdity,  and  unravelling  the  web  of  flimsy  sophistry.  He  was  the  last  accomplished 
debater  of  the  House  of  Commons.” — Lectures  on  the  Comic  Writers,  p.  334. 

Dey  be  that  tear,  my  gentlest  love, 

Be  hushed  that  struggling  sigh ; 

Nor  seasons,  day,  nor  fate  shall  prove, 

More  fixed,  more  true,  than  I : 

Hushed  he  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear, 

Cease  boding  doubt,  cease  anxious  fear — 

Dry  be  that  tear. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


33 


Ask’st  thou  how  long  my  love  shall  stay, 

When  all  that’s  new  is  past  ? 

How  long,  ah  ! Delia,  can  I say, 

How  long  my  life  shall  last  ? 

Dry  be  that  tear,  be  hushed  that  sigh, 

At  least  I’ll  love  thee  till  I die — 

Hushed  be  that  sigh. 

And  does  that  thought  affect  thee,  too, 

The  thought  of  Sylvio’s  death, 

That  he,  who  only  breathed  for  you, 

Must  yield  that  faithful  breath  ? 

Hushed  be  that  sigh,  be  dry  that  tear, 

Nor  let  us  lose  our  heaven  here — 

Dry  be  that  tear. 

i 

Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Sheridan,  enters  into  one  of  his  subtle  searches  after  the  source  of 
an  idea,  and  he  says,  speaking  of  the  lines  above,  “ There  is  in  the  second  stanza  here  a 
close  resemblance  to  one  of  the  madrigals  of  Montreuil,  a French  poet,  to  whom  Sir  John 
Moore  was  indebted  for  the  point  of  his  well  known  verses,  “ If  in  that  breast  so  good 
so  pure.” 

“ The  grief  that  on  my  quiet  preys, 

That  rends  my  heart  and  checks  my  tongue, 

I fear  will  last  me  all  my  days. 

And  feel  it  will  not  last  me  long.” 

It  is  thus  in  Montreuil — 

“ C’est  un  mal  quejaurai  tout  le  terns  de  ma  vie ; 

Maisje  ne  I'auraipas  long-terns'' 

Moore  thus  proceeds— “Mr.  Sheridan,  however,  knew  nothing  of  French,  and  neglected 
every  opportunity  of  learning  it,  till,  by  a very  natural  process,  his  ignorance  of  the 
language  grew  into  a hatred  of  it.  Besides  we  have  the  immediate  source  from  which  he 
derived  the  thought  of  this  stanza,  in  one  of  the  essays  of  Hume,  who  being  a reader  of 
foreign  literature,  most  probably  found  it  in  Montreuil— or  in  an  Italian  song  of  Menage, 
from  which  Montreuil  who  was  accustomed  to  such  thefts  probably  stole  it.” 

What  an  amusing  literary  “ detective"  we  have  here;  what  an  exposd  of  picking  and 
stealing.  Sir  John  Moore  and  Hume  suspected  of  filching  from  Montreuil;  Montreuil 
from  Menage ;— and,  finally,  Sheridan  from  Hume— as  thus,  according  to  his  biographer, 
the  passage  in  Hume  (which  Sheridan  has  done  little  more  than  versify)  is  as  follows: — 
“ Why  so  often  ask  me.  How  long  my  love  shall  yet  endure  ? Alas  my  Coelia,  can  I resolve 
the  question  ? Do  I know  how  long  my  life  shall  yet  endure  ?”  - Moore’s  Life  of  Sheridan, 
vol.  i.  p.  52,  2nd  Ed.  8vo. 


3* 


34 


SONGS  OF  TUE  AFFECTIONS, 


AH ! CRUEL  MAID. 

Sheeidan. 

Ah,  cruel  maid,  how  hast  thou  chang’d 
The  temper  of  my  mind  ! 

My  heart,  by  thee  from  love  estrang’d, 

Becomes,  like  thee,  unkind. 

By  fortune  favoured,  clear  in  fame, 

I once  ambitious  was  ; 

And  friends  I had,  who  fanned  the  flame. 

And  gave  my  youth  applause. 

But  now,  my  weakness  all  accuse, 

Yet  vain  their  taunts  on  me  ; 

Friends,  fortune,  fame  itself,  I’d  lose, 

To  gain  one  smile  from  thee. 

And  only  thou  should  not  despise 
My  weakness,  or  my  woe ; 

If  I am  mad  in  others  eyes, 

’Tis  thou  hast  made  me  so. 

But  days,  like  this,  with  doubting  curst, 

I will  not  long  endure — 

Am  I disdained — I know  the  worst, 

And  likewise  know  my  cure. 

If  false,  her  vows  she  dare  renounce, 

That  instant  ends  my  pain  ; 

For,  oh ! the  heart  must  break  at  once, 

That  cannot  hate  again. 

Moore,  in  his  life  of  Sheridan,  says,  this  song,  “ for  deep  impassioned  feeling  and  natural 
eloquence,  has  not,  perhaps,  its  rival  through  the  whole  range  of  lyric  poetry.” 

Now,  as  Moore,  in  several  places  notices  Sheridan’s  plagiarisms,  as  in  the  foregoing 
song,  “ Dry  be  that  tear”  for  example,  and  as  the  Muses  delight  in  retributive  justice,  it  is 
only  fair  to  show  that  Moore  himself  was  sometimes  indebted  to  Sheridan  for  an  idea,  as  in 
the  following  song  for  instance. 


JOYS  THAT  PASS  AWAY, 

Moose. 

Joys  that  pass  away  like  this, 
Alas  ! are  purchas’d  dear, 

If  every  beam  of  bliss 
Is  followed  by  a tear ! 


SONGS  OF  TIIE  AFFECTIONS. 


35 


Fare  thee  well,  oh  ! fare  thee  well ! 

Soon,  too  soon,  thon’st  broke  the  spell ; 
Oh ! I ne’er  can  love  again 
The  girl  whose  faithless  art 
Could  break  so  dear  a chain, 

And  with  it  break  my  heart. 

Once  when  truth  was  in  those  eyes, 
How  beautiful  they  shone  ; 

But  now  that  lustre  flies, 

For  truth  alas ! is  gone  ! 

F are  thee  well ! oh  ! fare  thee  well ! 

H(5w  I’ve  lov’d,  my  hate  shall  tell ; 

Oh ! how  lorn,  how  lost  would  prove 
Thy  wretched  victim’s  fate, 

If,  when  deceiv’d  in  love, 

He  could  not  fly  to  hate. 


The  four  last  lines  of  this  song  are  clearly  a plagiarism  from  the  concluding  verse  of  the 
song  above,  “Ah,  Cruel  Maid  — the  only  difference  being  that  Sheridan’s  idea,  which 
overflows  with  love,  Moore  has  disfigured  by  bitterness. 


AILLEEN. 

John  Banim. 

’Tis  not  for  love  of  gold  I go, 

’Tis  not  for  love  of  fame  ; 

Tho’  fortune  should  her  smile  bestow 
And  I may  win  a name, 

Ailleen, 

And  I may  win  a name. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I go, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame, 

That  they  may  deck  another  brow, 
And  bless  another  name, 

Ailleen, 

And  bless  another  name. 

For  this, — but  this,  I go ; for  this 
I lose  thy  love  awhile, 

And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 
Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile, 
Ailleen, 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile. 


36 


SONGS  OP  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


I go  to  brave  a world  I hate, 

And  woo  it  o’er  and  o’er, 

And  tempt  a wave,  and  try  a fate 
Upon  a stranger  shore, 

Ailleen, 

Upon  a stranger  shore. 

Oh  ! when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

I know  a heart  will  care  ! 

Oh ! when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 
I know  a brow  shall  wear, 

Ailleen, 

I know  a brow  shall  wear  ! 

And  when,  with  both  returned  again, 
My  native  land  to  see, 

I know  a smile  will  meet  me  there, 
And  a hand  will  welcome  me, 
Ailleen, 

And  a hand  will  welcome  me. 


SAY OURNEEN  DEELISH. 

George  Colman,  the  younger.  Born  1762,  died  1836. 

An ! the  moment  was  sad  when  my  love  and  I parted — 

Savournecn  deelish  Eileen  oge  !* 
As  I kissed  off  her  tears,  I was  nigh  broken-hearted  ! — 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge  ! 
Wan  was  her  cheek  which  hung  on  my  shoulder — 

Damp  was  her  hand,  no  marble  was  colder, 

I felt  that  again  I should  never  behold  her. 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge  ! 

When  the  word  of  command  put  our  men  into  motion, 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge  ! 
I buckled  on  my  knapsack  to  cross  the  wide  ocean, 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge  ! 
Brisk  were  our  troops,  all  roaring  like  thunder, 

Pleased  with  the  voyage,  impatient  for  plunder, 

My  bosom  with  grief  was  almost  torn  asunder, 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge  ! 

Long  I fought  for  my  country,  far,  far  from  my  true  love, 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge  / 
All  my  pay  and  my  booty  I hoarded  for  you  love, 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge  ! 


* Darling  dear  Young  Ellen. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


37 


Peace  was  proclaimed,  escaped  from  the  slaughter, — 

Landed  at  home,  my  sweet  girl  I sought  her  ; 

But  sorrow,  alas  ! to  the  cold  grave  had  brought  her  ; 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge  ! 

This  very  touching  song  is  part  of  a musical  drama  entitled  “The  Surrender  of  Calais,” 
and,  though  written  by  an  Englishman,  finds  an  appropriate  place  here,  as  being  a song 
sung  by  an  Irish  character  (0‘Carrol)  to  one  of  the  finest  of  the  Irish  melodies,  entitled 
“ Savourneen  Deelish,”  and  Colman  adopted  the  title  as  part  of  the  burden  of  his  song, 
thus  following  a practice  of  some  antiquity  in  England,  as  I take  occasion  to  show  elsewhere 
in  this  volume.  (See  “ Woods  of  Caillino.”) 


HOW  OFT,  LOUISA. 

From  “ The  Duenna.”  Sheridan-. 

How  oft,  Louisa,  hast  thou  said — 

Nor  wilt  thou  the  fond  boast  disown  — 
Thou  wouldst  not  lose  Antonio’s  love 
To  reign  the  partner  of  a throne ! 

And  by  those  lips  that  spoke  so  kind, 

And  by  this  hand  I press’d  to  mine, 

To  gain  a subject  nation’s  love 

I swear  I would  not  part  with  thine. 

Then  how,  my  soul,  can  we  he  poor, 

Who  own  what  kingdoms  could  not  buy  ? 
Of  this  true  heart  thou  shalt  he  queen, 

And,  serving  thee — a monarch  I. 

And  thus  control’d  in  mutual  bliss, 

And  rich  in  love’s  exhaustless  mine — 

Do  thou  snatch  treasures  from  my  lip, 

And  I’ll  take  kingdoms  back  from  thine ! 


SWEET  SEDUCER. 

Moore. 

Sweet  seducer,  ever  smiling ! 

Charming  still  and  still  beguiling ! 
Oft  I swore  to  love  thee  never — 

But  I love  thee  more  than  ever. 

Oh ! be  less,  be  less  enchanting, 

Let  some  little  grace  be  wanting ; 
Let  my  eyes,  when  I’m  expiring, 
Gaze  awhile  without  admiring ! 


G8 


SO^GS  OP  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


SINCE  C (ELIA’S  MY  FOE. 

Thomas  Dhffett.  1676. 

A singular  interest  attaches  to  this  old  song,  as  it  establishes  beyond  a doubt,  that  the 
beautiful  air  which  the  Scotch  claim  under  the  title  of  “ Loehaber”  is  Irish. 

In  the  British  Museum  is  a book  entitled  •*  New  Poems,  Songs,  Prologues  and  Epilogues, 
never  before  printed,  by  Thomas  Duffctt,  and  set  by  the  most  Eminent  Musicians  about  the 
Town,  London  1676.”  In  this  volume  is  the  song  which  follows,  but  instead  of  having  the 
name  of  any  of  these  “ Eminent  Musicians  about  the  Town”  attached  to  it,  as  is  the  case 
with  other  songs  in  the  volume,  the  lines  are  headed 

“ Song  to  the  Irish  Tune.” 

The  use  of  the  definite  article,  in  this  title,  is  worthy  of  remark ; — it  is  not 
“ Song  to  an  Irish  tune,” — but  “ Song  to  the  Irish  tune  :” — 

rendering  the  inference  almost  inevitable  that  it  was  a melody  which  had  lately  been 
introduced  from  Ireland,  of  which  the  name  was  not  known,  and  it  was  therefore  recognized, 
for  want  of  a better  title,  as  “ The  Irish  Tune.” 

The  anonymous  quality  which  prevents  the  discovery  of  authorship  in  other  cases,  is 
the  very  quality  which  establishes  the  source  of  the  production  in  this.  Had  it  been  called 
by  any  name,  the  country  of  its  birth  might  have  been  dubious,  or,  at  least,  open  to  question, 
but  being  called  the  Irish  Tune,  is  proof  positive  whence  it  came. 

The  Scotch  claim  the  air  of  Loehaber  because  it  is  given  in  “ The  Tea-table  Miscellany” 
of  Allan  Ramsay,  who  wrote  words  to  it ; (“Farewell  to  Loehaber,  farewell  to  my  Jean,” 
— to  the  tune  of  “ Loehaber  no  more”) ; but  Allan  Ramsay  was  not  born  until  1696,  twenty 
years  after  the  publication  of  Duffett’s  song  to  The  Irish  Tune ; and  the  first  edition  of 
The  Tea-table  Miscellany  was  not  published  until  1724 — half  a century  after  Duffett’s 
song ; — besides  which,  The  Tea-table  Miscellany  can  never  he  reckoned  an  authority  for  the 
establishment  of  Scottish  authorship,  inasmuch  as  quantities  of  English  songs  are  set  down 
in  that  work  without  any  acknowledgment  whatever;  and,  in  the  third  volume  of  the  later 
editions,  twenty-one  songs  are  given,  as  from  the  “Beggar’s  Opera” - the  only  acknowledg- 
ment made  in  the  book — and  as  the  songs  were  in  the  very  bloom  of  their  popularity  at 
the  time,  every  one  would  have  known  whence  they  were  taken,  had  there  been  no 
acknowledgment. 

In  the  “ Book  of  Scottish  Songs,”  (an  antecedent  volume  in  this  series)  it  is  stated  that  the 
original  name  of  the  melody  of  Loehaber  was  “King  James’s  March  to  Ireland but  as  the 
melody,  known  as  The  Irish  Tune,  was  popular  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second,  before 
James  was  king,  that  very  title  damages  the  Scotch  claim besides,  James  did  not  go  to 
Ireland  until  1688,  while  the  tune  was  already  admired  in  London,  as  The  Irish  Tune , twelve 
years  before  that,  and  the  popularity  of  the  air,  which  was  afterwards  called  by  the  leading 
line  of  Duffett’s  song,  is  made  evident  by  the  numerous  publications  ©f  it,  as  well  as 
answers  to  it.— I give  the  proofs— they  may  be  seen  in 

Old  Balades.  Oblong  4to. 

Rawlinson  Collection,  Bodleian  Library. 

Amintor’s  lamentation  for  Celia’s 
Unkindness,  to  a delicate  new  tune : or 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


39 


Since  Celia’s  my  foe.  Printed  for  Philip 
Brooksby  at  the  Golden  Ball  near  the  Hos- 
pital gate  West  Smithfield.  (One  large 
Wood  Cut  and  three  small) 

Celias  Answer  to  Amintor’s  lamen- 
tation. To  the  tune  of  Celia’s  my  foe, 
with  allowance,  5 small  wood  cuts,  in 
Two  parts. 

(it  begins 

“ ’Tis  better  then  so 
Tho’  you  force  me  to  go” 

Printed  by  Phillip  Brooksby,  &c. 

A. d.  1582.  In  “ Wit  and  Drollery,”  it  is 
Entitled  * The  Resolve.’  p.  327. 

Another  copy  in  the  Roxburghe 
Collection.  Vol.  2.  p.  9.  Printed  by 
Phillip  Brooksby,  &c. 
a.  n.  1684.  The  air  is  used  to  “ A Song 
Entitled  ‘ The  deceived  Virgin  or  the  treacherous 
Young  Lover’s  Cruelty,’  &c and 
In  1727,  to  “A  Song  on  the  Confession 
and  dying  words  of  William  Stevenson,  Merchant,  &c,” 
both  of  which  may  be  seen  in  the  Cheetham 
Library,  Manchester,  in  Halliwell’s  Collection, 
pp.  279,  258. 

Here  we  find,  in  1727,  contemporaneously  with  Allan  Ramsay’s  publication,  the  song 
called  “Since  Coolia’s  my  foe,” — but  not  a word  about  “Lochaber,”  or  “King  James’s 
March.”  The  air  was  introduced  into  various  entertainments  and  even  into  operas,  which 
became  so  much  the  vogue  after  the  success  of  Gay’s  “ Beggar’s  Opera  j”  for,  three  years 
later  than  the  foregoing  date,  the  air  is  given  in 

“ The  Lover’s  Opera,  as  it  is  performed  at  the  Theatre 
Royal  by  His  Majesty’s  servants,  By  Mr.  Chetwood, 

London.  Printed  for  John  Watts  at  the  printing  office 
in  Wild  Court,  near  Lincoln’s  Inn  fields. 

M.DCC.XXX.” 

And  here,  in  1730,  is  the  air  still  called  “Since  Ccelia’s  my  foe.”  I have  been  thus  elabo- 
rate in  tracing  the  air  from  1676,  when  Duffett  published  his  song,  up  to  1730,  to  show  that 
for  half  a century  the  air  was  known  by  that  name  only,  and  not  until  half  a century  after 
Duffett’s  song  is  there  any  published  notice  of  “ Lochaber.” 

Singularly  coinciding  with  this  circumstantial  evidence  is  a passage  in  Bunting’s  “ Ancient 
Music  of  Ireland.”  Dublin,  18-40.  “Another  eminent  harper  of  this  period,  was  Miles 
Reilly  of  Killincarra,  in  the  County  of  Cavan,  born  about  1635.  He  was  universally 
referred  to  by  the  harpers  at  Belfast,  as  the  composer  of  the  original  of  ‘Lochaber.’ 
The  air  is  supposed  to  have  been  carried  into  Scotland  by  Thomas  Connallon,  born  five 
years  later  at  Cloonmahoon,  in  the  County  of  Sligo.  O’Neill  calls  him  ‘the  great  harper,’ 
and  states  that  he  attained  to  city  honours  (‘  They  made  him,  as  I heard,  a Baillie,  or 
kind  of  Burgomaster’)  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  died.” 

Here  is  the  name  of  the  composer  of  the  air  given,  transmitted  through  a succession  of 
harpers; — he  was  born  in  1635; — the  air,  composed  by  him,  is  popular  in  London  some 


40 


SOXGS  OF  TIIE  AFFECTIONS. 


thirty  years  after— a period  probable  enough,  and  its  passage  into  Scotland  accounted  for 
by  Connallon  having  gone  to  that  country  and  died  there.  Bunting  made  his  assertion  in 
1840,  without  any  knowledge  of  the  existence  of  this  song  of  “ Since  Coelia’s  my  foe,”  and 
all  that  belongs  to  the  history  of  that  song,  as  detailed  in  this  note,  is  singularly  corrobo- 
rative of  the  fact  Bunting  records.  Such  a coincidence  of  evidence  establishes,  beyond 
all  cavil,  the  right  of  Ireland  to  the  beautiful  melody  in  question,  which  was  emphatically 
called  in  England,  nearly  two  centuries  ago.  The  Irish  Tune. 

Here  is  the  song  strictly  copied,  with  its  odd  spelling  and  misuse  of  capitals,  from  the 
original  in  the  British  Museum. 


Song  to  the  Irish  Tune.* 

Since  Coclia’s  my  foe, 

To  a Desart  I’ll  go, 

Where  some  river 
For  ever 

Shall  Echo  my  woe  : 

The  Trees  shall  appear 
More  relenting  than  her , 

In  the  morning 
Adorning 

Each  leaf  with  a tear. 

When  I make  my  sad  mone 
To  the  Rocks  all  alone, 

From  each  hollow 
Will  follow 
Some  pitiful  grone. 

But  with  silent  Disdain 
She  requites  all  my  pain, 

To  my  mourning 
Returning 
No  answer  again. 

Ah  Ccelia  adieu, 

When  I cease  to  pursue, 

You’ll  discover 
No  Lover 
Was  ever  so  true. 

Your  sad  Shepherd  flies 
From  those  dear  cruel  eyes 
Which  not  seeing 
His  being 

Decaies,  and  he  dies. 

* For  the  musical  notation  of  the  tune,  see  Appendix. 


SONGS  of  the  affections. 


41 


Yet  tis  better  to  run 
To  the  fate  we  can’t  shun 
Than  for  ever 
To  strive,  for 
What  cannot  be  won. 

What  ye  Gods  have  I done 
That  Amyntor  alone 
Is  so  treated 
And  hated 
For  Loving  but  one. 


Moore,  in  the  seventh  number  of  the  Irish  Melodies,  makes  a note  to  his  song  of  “When 
cold  in  the  earth”  written  to  this  beautiful  “ Irish  Tune,”  “ Our  right  to  this  fine  air  (the 
‘Lochaber’  of  the  Scotch)  will,  I fear,  be  disputed;  but  as  it  has  been  long  connected  with 
Irish  words,  and  is  confidently  claimed  for  us  by  Mr.  Bunting  and  others,  I thought  I 
should  not  be  authorized  in  leaving  it  out  of  this  collection.”— How  pleased  Moore  would 
have  been,  could  he  have  seen  the  proof,  given  in  the  note  above,  establishing  beyond  all 
doubt  that  the  air  is  Irish.  I confess  it  is  a great  pleasure  to  me — not  that  I ever  doubted 
the  air  was  Irish,  for  its  own  internal  evidence  is  quite  enough  for  any  musician,  con- 
versant with  the  character  of  the  music  of  the  two  countries;  but  it  is  a pleasure  to 
me,  I say,  to  give  so  conclusive  a proof  to  others,  that  this  exquisite  melody  is  an  *•  Irish 
Tone.” 

In  the  fly-leaf  of  the  volume  whence  the  above  song  is  taken,  there  is  written,  in  a 
firm  hand,  “Nar  Luttrell.  His  Book.  1679—80.”  So  that,  most  likely,  it  belonged 
to  that  Narcissus  Luttrell  whose  copious  diary  has  lately  issued  from  the  Oxford 
University  press. 


COME  ALL  YOU  PALE  LOVEPS. 

Thomas  Duffett,  1676. 

Here  is  another  song  by  Duffett.  He  was  of  sufficient  note  to  have  his  name  recorded 
in  Lempriere’s  Universal  Biography ; but  there  is  little  information  given  about  him  except 
that  he  “ flourished  in  the  17th  century.” — That  he  was  Irish,  his  name  vouches  for,  and 
the  rapid  recurrence  of  rhymes  in  the  foregoing  song  is  also  characteristic  of  his  country; 
it  may  be  remarked,  also,  that  the  rhyme  “hated”  is  given  to  answer  “treated’’ — 
which  implies  an  Irish  pronunciation  ( trated ) on  the  part  of  the  writer.  There  is  a good 
deal  of  vivacity  in  many  of  Duffett’s  songs ; but  they  are  tainted  with  the  licentious  spirit 
of  the  age  in  which  he  wrote,  making  them,  like  many  better  ones  of  the  same  date, 
unfit  for  selection. — The  following,  however,  is  unexceptionable,  and  the  * take-it-easy’ 
style  in  which  he  satisfies  himself  with  his  imaginary  fair  one  is  very  Irish  in  its  humour. — 
It  has  not  any  head  line,  for  title,  but  is  given  as  under ; and  in  this,  as  in  the  foregoing 
song,  the  typographical  peculiarities  are  copied. 


42 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Song  set  by  Mr.  Marsh  junior. 

Come  all  you  pale  Lovers  that  sigh  and  complain, 

While  your  beautiful  Tyrants  hut  laugh  at  your  pain, 
Come  practice  with  me 
To  he  happy  and  free, 

In  spight  of  Inconstancy,  Pride  or  Disdain. 

I see  and  I Love,  and  the  Bliss  I enjoy, 

No  Bival  can  lessen,  nor  envy  destroy. 

My  Mistress  so  fair  is,  no  Language  or  Art, 

Can  describe  her  Perfection  in  every  part, 

Her  meen’s  so  Gentile, 

With  such  ease  she  can  kill : 

Each  look  with  new  passion  she  captives  my  heart. 

I see,  &c., 

No  rival,  &c. 

Her  smiles,  the  kind  message  of  Love  from  her  eyes, 
When  she  frowns  ’tis  from  others  her  Elame  to  disguise, 
Thus  her  scorn  or  her  Spight 
I convert  to  delight, 

As  the  Bee  gathers  Honey  where  ever  he  flies. 

I see,  &c., 

No  rival,  &c. 

My  vows  she  receives  from  her  Lover  unknown, 

And  I fancy  kind  answers  although  I have  none, 

How  Blest  should  I he 
If  our  Hearts  did  agree 
Since  already  I And  so  much  Pleasure  alone. 

I see,  and  I love,  and  the  Bliss  I enjoy, 

No  Bival  can  lessen  nor  envy  destroy. 


ODE  TO  THE  MINSTREL  O’CONNELL  AN.  Born,  1G40. 

Translated  from  the  Irish,  by  Samuel  Ferguson-,  M.R.I.A. 

Having  occasion  to  mention  the  name  of  O’Connellan  in  the  leading  note  to  “Since 
Ccelia’s  my  foe,”  wherein  it  is  stated  he  was  called  “ The  Great  Harper,”  I think  this  is  a 
fitting  place  to  insert  the  following  ode  in  his  honour;  for  though  the  ode  does  not  properly 
come  within  the  range  of  this  section,  yet,  in  connexion  with  the  note  alluded  to,  the  place 
is  not  inappropriate,  and  it  may  be  inferred  with  what  a charm  his  execution  invested  tho 
lovely  Irish  air  he  introduced  into  Scotland. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS, 


43 


Enchanter,  who  reignest 
Supreme  o’er  the  North, 

And  hast  wiled  the  coy  spirit 
Of  true  music  forth ; 

In  vain  Europe’s  minstrels 
To  honour  aspire, 

When  thy  swift,  slender  fingers 
Go  forth  on  the  wire. 

There  is  no  heart’s  desire 
Can  he  felt  by  a king 
That  thy  hand  cannot  snatch 
From  the  soul  of  the  string, 

By  the  sovereign  virtue 
And  might  of  its  sway ; 
Enchanter,  who  steal  from 
The  fairies  your  lay ! 

Enchanter,  I say, 

For  thy  magical  skill 
Can  soothe  every  sorrow, 

And  heal  every  ill ; 

Who  hear  thee,  they  praise  thee, 
And  weep  while  they  praise, 
For,  charmer,  thou  stealest 
Thy  strain  from  the  fays ! 

There  are  three  versions  of  this  beautiful  ode. 


MOLLY  ASTORE. 

Rt.  Hon.  Geobge  Ogle.  Born  1739.  Died  1814. 

Esteemed  both  in  private  and  public,  Mr.  Ogle  represented  the  city  of  Dublin  in  1799, 
and  voted  against  the  Union.  And  here  a little  anecdote  on  the  subject  of  voting  for  the 
Union  may  not  be  inappropriate.  It  is  well  known  that  bribery  to  an  enormous  amount 
was  employed  to  secure  a majority  on  that  occasion.  Places  and  pensions,  and  “ ready 
money  down,”  too,  were  given  so  freely,  that  some  greedy  jobbers  opened  their  mouths 
very  wide  indeed,  and,  knowing  how  narrow  the  majority  must  be,  one  gentleman, 
towards  the  close  of  the  negociation  (not  Mr.  Ogle),  put  such  an  enormous  price  on  his 
adhesion  to  the  Government  that  his  terms  could  not  be  complied  with.  Consequently, 
he  voted  in  the  minority,  with  the  opposition,  though  it  was  well  known  he  had  been 
trafficking  with  the  other  side ; and  when,  the  next  day,  he  was  seen  walking  about  with  a 
very  melancholy  expression  of  countenance,  one  of  the  uncompromising  Hibernian 


44 


SONGS  OF  TELE  AFFECTIONS. 


members  said  to  another: — “What  do  you  think  of  owe  patriotic  friend  there?”  as  ho 
pointed  him  out.  “ I think  he’s  a sorry  patriot,”  was  the  answer. 

And  now,  revenons  a nos  moutons.  This  charming  pastoral  was  addressed,  it  is  sup- 
posed, to  a certain  Miss  Moore,  whom  the  author  afterwards  married.  Lucky  dog ! 
Would  to  heaven  all  plaintive  poets  had  a similar  reward — though  it  is  not  quite  certain 
that  they’d  never  complain  after. 

“Marriage  from  love,  like  vinegar  from  wine— 

A sad,  sour,  sober  beverage— by  time 
Is  sharpened  from  its  high  celestial  flavour 
Down  to  a very  homely  household  savour.” 

But  1 think  I hear  the  ladies  say,  “Oh,  fie!”  so  I’ll  “leave  my  damnable  faces ” (after 
the  vinegar)  and  let  the  song  begin. 


As  down  by  Banna’s  banks  I strayed, 

One  evening  in  May, 

The  little  birds,  in  blithest  notes 
Made  vocal  ev’ry  spray  ; 

They  sung  their  little  notes  of  love, 

They  sung  them  o’er  and  o’er. 

Ah,  gra-ma-chree , ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Molly  astore.* 

The  daisy  pied,  and  all  the  sweets 
The  dawn  of  Nature  yields — 

The  primrose  pale,  and  vi’let  blue, 

Lay  scattered  o’er  the  fields  ; 

Such  fragrance  in  the  bosom  lies 
Of  her  whom  I adore. 

Ah,  gra-ma-chree , ma  colleen  ogef 
My  Molly  astore. 

I laid  me  down  upon  a bank, 

Bewailing  my  sad  fate, 

That  doomed  me  thus  the  slave  of  love, 

And  cruel  Molly’s  hate ; 

How  can  she  break  the  honest  heart 
That  wears  her  in  its  core  P 

Ah,  gra-ma-chree , ma  colleen  oge , 

My  Molly  astore. 

You  said  you  loved  me,  Molly  dear! 

Ah  ! why  did  I believe  ? 

Yet  who  could  think  such  tender  words 
Were  meant  but  to  deceive  ? 

• Which  may  be  translated  thus “ Love  of  my  heart— my  young  girl,  Molly  my 
treasure !” 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


45 


That  love  was  all  I asked  on  earth — 

Nay,  Heaven  could  give  no  more. 

Ah,  gra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  oge. 

My  Molly  astore. 

Oh ! had  I all  the  flocks  that  graze 
On  yonder  yellow  hill ; 

Or  lowed  for  me  the  numerous  herds 
That  yon  green  pasture  fill ; 

With  her  I love,  I’d  gladly  share 
My  kine,  and  fleecy  store. 

Ah,  gra-ma-chree , ma  colleen  oge. 

My  Molly  astore. 

Two  turtle  doves,  above  my  head 
Sat  courting  on  a bough, 

I envied  them  their  happiness, 

To  see  them  bill  and  coo, 

Such  fondness  once  for  me  was  shown, 

But  now,  alas  ! ’tis  o’er. 

Ah,  gra-ma-chree , ma  colleen  oge. 

My  Molly  astore. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  Molly  dear ! 

Thy  loss  I e’er  shall  moan, 

Whilst  life  remains  in  this  fond  heart, 
’Twill  beat  for  thee  alone ; 

Though  thou  art  false,  may  Heaven  on  thee 
Its  choicest  blessings  pour. 

Ah,  gra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  oge. 

My  Molly  astore. 


This  song  had  a great  popularity,  a popularity  increased  by  the  great  beauty  of  the 
music— one  of  the  finest  of  our  Irish  airs— and  it  is  still  popular  in  Ireland.  But  a 
dangerous  rival  to  it  appeared,  from  the  pen  of  Sheridan,  a son  g in  “ The  Duenna,’  ’ under  the 
title,  “ Had  I a heart  for  falsehood  framed,” — and  that  most  charming  song  divided  the  sway 
in  Ireland  with  its  predecessor,  and  seized  the  crown  altogether  in  England.  But  a lyrical 
Alexander  afterwards  appeared,  who  deposed  all  the  old  kings  of  song,  and  the  beautiful 
air  of  “ Molly  Astore,”  which  already  inspired  the  writing  of  two  admirable  lyrics,  had  a 
triple  glory  added  in  the  noble  song  of  “ The  harp  that  once  thro’  Tara’s  hall,”  by  Moore, 
and  I will  venture  on  a prediction  in  a parody — 


The  force  of  conquest  can  no  further  go ! 


46 


SONGS  OF  TIIE  AFFECTIONS, 


HAD  I A HEART  FOR  FALSEHOOD  FRAMED. 

She  rid  ak.  Air,  “Molly  Astore.” 

After  the  foregoing  song  and  commentary,  Sheridan’s  song  naturally  takes  its  place  here. 

Had  I a heart  for  falsehood  framed, 

I ne’er  could  injure  you, 

For,  tho’  your  tongue  no  promise  claim’d, 

Your  charms  would  make  me  true  ; 

Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit, 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong, 

For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you’ll  meet, 

And  lovers  in  the  young. 

But  when  they  find  that  you  have  bless’d 
Another  with  your  heart, 

They  ’ll  hid  aspiring  passion  rest, 

And  act  a brother’s  part. 

Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit 
Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong, 

For  friends  in  all  the  aged  you’ll  meet 
And  brothers  in  the  young. 

In  speaking  of  the  lyrics  in  the  Opera  of  “The  Duenna’’  Moore  says— "By  far  the 
greater  number  of  the  songs  are  full  of  beauty,  and  some  of  them  may  rank  among  the  best 
models  of  lyric  writing.  The  verses  ‘Had  I a heart  for  falsehood  framed,’  notwith- 
standing the  stiffness  of  this  word  ‘framed,’  and  one  or  two  slight  blemishes,  are  not 
unworthy  of  living  in  recollection  with  the  matchless  air  to  which  they  are  adapted.” — 
Moore  s Life  of  Sheridan,  vol.  1.  p.  174.  (Svo.  2nd  Ed.) 


BRIDGET  CRUISE 

Carolan.  Translated  by  Thomas  Furloeg. 

On  ! turn  thee  to  me,  my  only  love, 

Let  not  despair  confound  me ; 

Turn,  and  may  blessings  from  above 
In  life  and  death  surround  thee. 

This  fond  heart  throbs  for  thee  alone  — 

Oh ! leave  me  not  to  languish, 

Look  on  these  eyes,  whence  sleep  hath  flown, 
Bethink  thee  of  my  anguish : 

My  hopes,  my  thoughts,  my  destiny — 

All  dwell,  all  rest,  sweet  girl,  on  thee. 


SONGS  OE  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


47 


Young  bud  of  beauty,  for  ever  bright, 

The  proudest  must  bow  before  thee ; 

Source  of  my  sorrow  and  my  delight — 

Oh ! must  I in  vain  adore  thee  ? 

Where,  where,  through  earth’s  extended  round, 

Where  may  such  loveliness  be  found  ? 

Talk  not  of  fair  ones  known  of  yore ; 

Speak  not  of  Deirdre  the  renowned — 

She  whose  gay  glance  each  minstrel  hail’d ; 

Nor  she  whom  the  daring  Dardan  bore 
From  her  fond  husband’s  longing  arms  ; 

Name  not  the  dame  whose  fatal  charms, 

When  weighed  against  a world,  prevail’d ; 

To  each  might  blooming  beauty  fall, 

Lovely,  thrice  lovely,  might  they  be  ; 

But  the  gifts  and  graces  of  each  and  all 
Are  mingled,  sweet  maid,  in  thee  ! 

How  the  entranc’d  ear  fondly  lingers 
On  the  turns  of  thy  thrilling  song ; 

How  brightens  each  eye  as  thy  fair  white  fingers 
O’er  the  chords  fly  gently  along ; 

The  noble,  the  learn’ d,  the  ag’d,  the  vain, 

Gaze  on  the  songstress,  and  bless  the  strain. 

How  winning,  dear  girl,  is  thine  air, 

How  glossy  thy  golden  hair  ; 

Oh ! lov’d  one,  come  back  again, 

With  thy  train  of  adorers  about  thee — 

Oh  ! come,  for  in  grief  and  in  gloom  we  remain — 

Life  is  not  life  without  thee. 

My  memory  wanders — my  thoughts  have  stray  d — 

My  gathering  sorrows  oppress  me — 

Oh  ! look  on  thy  victim,  bright  peerless  maid, 

Say  one  kind  word  to  bless  me. 

Why,  why  on  thy  beauty  must  I dwell 

When  each  tortur’d  heart  knows  its  power  too  well  ? 

Or  why  need  I say  that  favour’d  and  bless’ d 
Must  be  the  proud  land  that  bore  thee  ? 

Oh ! dull  is  the  eye  and  cold  the  breast 
That  remains  unmov’d  before  thee. 

The  venerable  Charles  O’Connor  records  the  effects  produced  by  the  performance  of  this 
ode,  by  the  bard  in  the  presence  of  the  object  of  its  inspiration.  But  “the  course  of  true 
love”  ran  no  smoother  in  Cardan’s  days  than  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare;  there  were 
family  objections  to  the  union,  though  it  is  surmised  the  lady  herself  was  not  insensible  to 
the  lyre,  for 

“Woman’s  heart  was  made 
For  minstrels’  hands  alone. 

By  other  fingers  play’d 
It  yields  not  half  the  tone.” 


48 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


But  in  this  instance,  the  minstrel  was  obliged  to  “ keep  his  hands  off there  was  a father 
in  the  way. 

“Fathers  have  flinty  hearts !” 
says  Jaffier,  while  Don  Jerome  cries, 

“Oh,  what  a plague  is  an  obstinate  daughter!” 

but  Bridget  Cruise  was  not  obstinate : and  it  is  believed  that  the  lines  which  follow  are  a 
translation  from  some  stanzas  of  her  own,  in  which,  while  she  confesses  her  love,  she  bids 
her  lover  a hopeless  farewell. 


BRIDGET  CRUISE  TO  CAROLAN 


From  the  Irish. 

On  ! tempt  not  my  feet  from  the  straight  path  of  duty, 
Love  lights  a meteor  but  to  betray ! 

And  soon  wouldst  thou  tire  of  the  odourless  beauty, 

If  grew  not  esteem  upon  passion’s  decay. 

Then  cease  thee — ah,  cease  thee  to  urge  and  to  plain ! 

I may  not,  I cannot,  thy  suit  is  in  vain ; 

For  filial  affections  a daughter  restrain, 

And  worthless  were  she  who  had  slighted  their  sway. 

Oh,  how  couldst  thou  trust  for  connubial  affection 
The  bosom  untrue  to  its  earliest  ties  ? 

Or  where  were  thy  bliss,  when,  on  sad  recollection, 

I’d  sink,  self- condemn’d,  self-abash’d  from  thine  eyes  ? 

Then  cease  thee — ah,  cease  thee ! — ’tis  fated  we  part ! 

Yet,  if  sympathy  soften  the  pang  of  thy  heart, 

I will  own  to  this  bosom  far  dearer  thou  art 

Than  all  that  earth’s  treasure,  earth’s  pleasure  supplies. 

But  where  am  I urged  by  impetuous  feeling  ? 

Thy  tears  win  the  secret  long  hid  in  my  breast. 

Farewell ! and  may  time  fling  the  balsam  of  healing 
O’er  wounds  that  have  rankled,  and  robbed  thee  of  rest. 

Yet  lose  not,  ah,  lose  not,  each  lingering  thought 

Of  her  who  in  early  affection  you  sought, 

And  whose  bosom  to  cheer  thee  would  sacrifice  aught 
But  love  to  a parent,  the  kindest  and  best. 


But  the  love  of  Carolan  for  Bridget  Cruise  had  sunk  too  deeply  in  his  heart  to  be  ever 
banished  from  it.  Twenty  years  afterwards,  when  on  a pilgrimage  at  Loch  Derg,  the  blind 
bard  recognized  the  object  of  his  youthful  affection  by  the  touch  of  her  hand,  in  assisting 
her  out  of  the  ferry  boat.  The  incident,  with  some  slight  variation  of  the  circumstances, 
more  conducive  to  poetic  effect,  I have  recorded  in  a ballad  of  my  own,  which  being  so 
apposite  to  the  subject  I venture  to  insert. 


TRUE  LOYE  CAN  NE’ER  FORGET. 


Samuel  Lover. 


“ It  is  related  of  Carolan,  the  Irish  bard,  that  when  deprived  of  sight,  and  after  the  lapse 
of  twenty  years,  he  recognized  his  first  love  by  the  touch  of  her  hand.  The  lady’s  name 
was  Bridget  Cruise,  and  though  not  a pretty  name,  it  deserves  to  be  recorded,  as  belonging 
to  the  woman  who  could  inspire  such  a passion.”— Songs  and  Ballads. 


“ True  love  can  ne’er  forget; 

F ondly  as  when  we  met, 

Dearest,  I love  thee  yet, — 

My  darling  one !” 

Thus  sung  a minstrel  gray 
His  sweet  impassion’d  lay, 

Down  by  the  ocean’s  spray 
At  set  of  sun  ; 

Rut  wither’d  was  the  minstrel’s  sight, 
Morn  to  him  was  dark  as  night, 

Yet  his  heart  was  full  of  light ; 

As  he  his  lay  begun. 

“ True  love  can  ne’er  forget ; 

F ondly  as  when  we  met, 

Dearest,  I love  thee  yet, — 

My  darling  one ! 


4 


50 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Long  years  are  past  and  o’er, 

Since  from  this  fatal  shore, 

Cold  hearts  and  cold  winds  bore 
My  love  from  me.” 

Scarcely  the  minstrel  spoke, 

When  quick,  with  flashing  stroke, 

A boat’s  light  oar  the  silence  broke 
Over  the  sea ; 

Soon  upon  her  native  strand 
Doth  a lovely  lady  land, 

While  the  minstrel’s  love-taught  hand 
Did  o’er  his  wild  harp  run — 

“ True  love  can  ne’er  forget ; 

Fondly  as  when  we  met, 

Dearest,  I love  thee  yet, — 

My  darling  one  I” 

Where  the  minstrel  sat  alone, 

There,  that  lady  fair  hath  gone, 

Within  his  hand  she  placed  her  own, — 
The  bard  dropp’d  on  his  knee  ; 

From  his  lips  soft  blessings  came, 

He  kiss’d  her  hand  with  truest  flame, 

In  trembling  tones  he  named — her  name, 
Though  her  he  could  not  see. 

But  oh  ! — the  touch  the  bard  could  tell 
Of  that  dear  hand,  remember’d  well, — 
Ah ! — by  many  a secret  spell 
Can  true  love  find  his  own ! 

For  true  love  can  ne’er  forget ; 

Fondly  as  when  they  met ; 

He  loved  his  lady  yet, — 

His  darling  one ! 


CUSHLA  MA  CHEEE.* 

From  the  Irish. 


Befoee  the  sun  rose  at  yester-dawn, 

I met  a fair  maid  adown  the  lawn : 

The  berry  and  snow 
To  her  cheek  gave  its  glow, 

And  her  bosom  was  fair  as  the  sailing  swan — 
Then,  pulse  of  my  heart ! what  gloom  is  thine  ? 


Vein,  or  pulse  my  heart. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


51 


Her  beautiful  voice  more  hearts  hath  won 
Than  Orpheus’  lyre  of  old  had  done  ; 

Her  ripe  eyes  of  blue 
W ere  crystals  of  dew, 

On  the  grass  of  the  lawn  before  the  sun — 

And,  pulse  of  my  heart ! what  gloom  is  thine  ? 

I think  it  will  be  admitted  that  there  is  much  grace  and  tenderness  in  this  little  fragment ; 
I wish  more  had  been  preserved  of  the  song,  which  is  evidently  from  a superior  hand,  and 
if  not  ancient,  is  at  all  events  after  the  manner  of  ancient  Irish  songs.  Using  the  berry  as 
a comparison  instead  of  the  rose,  for  example.  The  “sailing  swan,”  besides,  is  a favourite 
image  with  the  old  Irish  writers.  The  lyre  of  Orpheus  is  a classical  allusion,  too,  which  may 
remind  those  acquainted  with  Mr.  Hardiman’s  “ Irish  Minstrelsy,”  of  a remark  he  makes  in 
that  most  interesting  work — “ Our  bards  appear  not  only  to  have  been  well  acquainted  with 
the  works  of  Anacreon,  but  to  have  admired,  and  in  many  instances  imitated  their  beauties.” 
He  then  gives  a fragment,  very  elegantly  translated  by  Mr.  D’ Alton,  which  he  says  is  like 
Anacreon’s  twenty-second  Ode,  and  refers  to  Mr.  Moore’s  translation.  He  says,  further, 
that  “ it  bears  great  resemblance  to  the  Epigram  of  Dyonisius.”  On  making  reference  to  Mr. 
Moore’s  work  I find  the  likeness  much  stronger  in  the  latter  than  in  the  former,  so  close 
indeed  as  to  make  the  translations  from  the  Irish  and  the  Greek  interesting. 


FRAGMENT. 

From  the  Irish.  Translated  by  John  D’ Alton. 

See  tbe  ripe  fruit;  oh!  were  I such, 
That  mellow  hangs  from  yonder  spray, 
To  win  your  eyes,  to  woo  your  touch, 
And  on  your  lips  to  melt  away  ! 

Were  I a rose,  in  some  fair  bower, 

By  thee  selected  from  the  rest ; 

To  triumph  in  thy  choice,  an  hour, 

And  die — upon  thy  snowy  breast. 


FRAGMENT. 

From  the  Greek  of  Dyonisius.  Translated  by  Thomas  Moore. 

I wish  I might  a rose-bud  grow, 

And  thou  wouldst  cull  me  from  the  bower, 

To  place  me  on  that  breast  of  snow, 

Where  I should  bloom,  a wintry  flower. 


52 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  GIRL  I LOYE. 

Translated  from  the  Irish.  Callanan. 

The  girl  I love  is  comely,  straight  and  tall ; 

Down  her  white  neck  her  auburn  tresses  fall : 

Her  dress  is  neat,  her  carriage  light  and  free — 

Here’s  a health  to  that  charming  maid  whoe’er  she  be ! 

The  rose’s  blush  but  fades  beside  her  cheek  ; 

Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  forehead  pale  and  meek ; 

Her  lips  like  cherries  on  a summer  tree — 

Here’s  a health  to  the  charming  maid  whoe’er  she  be ! 

When  I go  to  the  field  no  youth  can  lighter  bound, 

And  I freely  pay  when  the  cheerful  jug  goes  round, 

The  barrel  is  full : but  its  heart  we  soon  shall  see — 

Come,  here’s  to  that  charming  maid  whoe’er  she  be ! 

Had  I the  wealth  that  props  the  Saxon’s  reign  ; 

Or  the  diamond  crown  that  decks  the  King  of  Spain, 

I’d  yield  them  all  if  she  kindly  smiled  on  me — 

Here’s  a health  to  the  maid  I love  whoe’er  she  be ! 

Five  pounds  of  gold  for  each  lock  of  her  hair  I’d  pay, 

And  five  times  five,  for  my  love  one  hour  each  day ; 

Her  voice  is  more  sweet  than  the  thrush  on  its  own  green  tree — ■ 
Oh ! dear  one,  I drink  a fond  deep  health  to  thee ! 


YOU  NEVER  BADE  ME  HOPE. 

GBIFFiSr. 

You  never  bade  me  hope,  ’tis  true, 

I asked  you  not  to  swear ; 

But  I looked  in  those  eyes  of  blue, 

And  read  a promise  there. 

The  vow  should  bind,  with  maiden  sighs 
That  maiden  lips  have  spoken — 

But  that  which  looks  from  maiden’s  eyes 
Should  last  of  all  be  broken  ! 


SOXGS  OF  TnE  AFFECTIONS. 


53 


OH  YIELD,  FAIR  LIDS. 

From  an  unfinished  MS.  Drama.  Sheridan. 

On  yield,  fair  lids,  tlie  treasures  of  my  heart, 

Release  those  beams,  that  make  this  mansion  bright ; 

From  her  sweet  sense,  Slumber!  though  sweet  thou  art, 
Begone,  and  give  the  air  she  breathes  in  light. 

Or  while,  oh,  Sleep,  thou  dost  those  glances  hide, 

Let  rosy  slumbers  still  around  her  play, 

Sweet  as  the  cherub  Innocence  enjoy’d, 

When  in  thy  lap,  new-horn,  in  smiles  he  lay. 

And  thou,  oh  Dream,  that  com’st  her  sleep  to  cheer, 

Oh  take  my  shape,  and  play  a lover’s  part ; 

Kiss  her  from  me,  and  whisper  in  her  ear, 

Till  her  eyes  shine,  ’tis  night  within  my  heart. 


It  may  be  inferred  from  a passage  in  Moore’s  “ Life  of  Sheridan,”  that  he  intended  the 
unfinished  drama  whence  these  lines  are  taken  to  be  called  “The  Foresters;”  and  that  he 
was  very  hopeful  of  it,  for  he  was  wont  to  exclaim  occasionally,  to  confidential  friends, 
“Ah  ! wait  till  my  Foresters  comes  out ! ” 


WE  TWO. 

Sheridan. 

“We  two,  each  other’s  only  pride, 

Each  other’s  bliss,  each  other’s  guide, 

Far  from  the  world’s  unhallow’ d.  noise, 

Its  coarse  delights  and  tainted  joys, 

Through  wilds  will  roam  and  deserts  rude — - 
For,  Love,  thy  home  is  solitude.” 

“ There  shall  no  vain  pretender  he, 

To  court  thy  smile  and  torture  me, 

No  proud  superior  there  he  seen, 

But  nature’s  voice  shall  hail  thee,  queen.” 

u With  fond  respect  and  tender  awe, 

I will  obey  thy  gentle  law, 

Obey  thy  looks,  and  serve  thee  still, 

Prevent  thy  wish,  foresee  thy  will, 

And  added  to  a lover’s  care, 

Be  all  that  friends  and  parents  are.” 

These  are  also  from  the  same  MS.  drama  noticed  in  the  foregoing  song  of  “ Oh,  yield 
fair  lids.” 


54 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS, 


BY  CCELIA’S  AllBOUR. 

Sheridan-. 


By  Ccelia’s  arbour,  all  tbe  night, 

Hang,  humid  wreath, — the  lover’s  vow ; 
And  haply,  at  the  morning’s  light, 

My  love  will  twine  thee  round  her  brow. 

And  if  upon  her  bosom  bright 

Some  drops  of  dew  should  fall  from  thee  ; 
Tell  her  they  are  not  drops  of  night, 

But  tears  of  sorrow  shed  by  me. 


In  these  charming  lines  Sheridan  has  wrought  to  a higher  degree  of  finish  an  idea  to  be 
found  in  an  early  poem  of  his  addressed  to  Miss  Linley,  beginning  “ Uncouth  is  this  moss- 
covered  grotto  of  stone.”  The  poem  is  too  long  for  quotation  at  length,  and  in  truth  not 
worth  it,  the  choice  bit  Sheridan  remembered,  however,  and  reconstructed  as  above.  The 
original  idea  stood  thus: 

“ And  thou,  stony  grot,  in  thy  arch  may’st  preserve 
Two  lingering  drops  of  the  night-fallen  dew ; 

And  just  let  them  fall  at  her  feet  and  they’ll  serve 
As  tears  of  my  sorrow  entrusted  to  you. 

“ Or,  lest  they  unheeded  should  fall  at  her  feet. 

Let  them  fall  on  her  bosom  of  snow ; and  I swear 
The  next  time  I visit  thy  moss-cover’d  seat, 

I’ll  pay  thee  each  drop  with  a genuine  tear.” 

Moore,  in  his  life  of  Sheridan,  quotes  these  lines ; but  does  not  quote  them  quite  correctly, 
lie  gives  them  as  follows : — 

“ And  thou,  stony  grot,  in  thy  arch  may’st  preserve 
Two  lingering  drops  of  the  night-fallen  dew; 

Let  them  fall  on  her  bosom  of  snow,  and  they’ll  serve 
As  tears  of  my  sorrow  entrusted  to  you.” 

Moore  gives  the  quotation  for  the  purpose  of  hinting  that  Sheridan  borrowed  the  thought; 
he  says,  “ The  conceit  in  the  stanza  resembles  a thought  in  some  verses  of  Angerianus : — 

“At  quum per  niveam  cervicem  injluxerit  humor 
Dicite  non  roris  sed  pluvia  hcec  lacrimce.” 

Whether  Sheridan  was  likely  to  have  been  a reader  of  Angerianus  is,  1 think,  doubtful 
— at  all  events  the  coincidence  is  curious.” — Moore’s  Life  of  Sheridan,  vol.  1.  p.  50. 

Now,  what  is  still  more  “curious,”  is,  that  Moore  who  accusers  Sheridan  of  borrowing,  is 
again  (as  in  his  foregoing  songs)  a borrower  himself,  from  Sheridan; — let  us  refer  to  the 
following  verses. 


SONGS  OF  TIIE  AFFECTIONS. 


55 


THOU  HAST  SENT  ME  A FLOWERY  BAND. 

Mooke. 

Thou  hast  sent  me  a flowery  band, 

And  told  me  ’twas  fresh  from  the  field  ; 

That  the  leaves  were  untouched  by  a hand, 

And  the  sweetest  of  odours  would  yield. 

And  indeed  it  is  fragrant  and  fair, 

But  if  it  were  breath’d  on  by  thee, 

It  would  bloom  with  a livelier  air, 

And  would  surely  be  sweeter  to  me. 

Let  the  odorous  gale  of  thy  breath 
Embalm  it  with  many  a sigh  ; 

Nay,  let  it  be  wither’d  to  death, 

Beneath  the  warm  noon  of  thine  eye. 

And  instead  of  the  dew  that  it  bears, 

The  dew  dropping  fresh  from  the  tree, 

On  its  leaves  let  me  number  the  tears 
That  affection  hath  stolen  from  thee  ! 

These  last  four  lines  are  but  another  form  of  the  idea  in  Sheridan’s  quatrain: — 

“ And  if  upon  her  bosom  bright. 

Some  drops  of  dew  should  fall  from  thee ; 

Tell  her  they  are  not  drops  of  night, 

But  tears  of  sorrow  shed  by  me.” 

Moore,  however,  on  the  subject  of  plagiarism,  declares  “ the  descendants  of  Prometheus 
all  steal  the  spark  wherever  they  find  it.” 


MOLLY  BAWN. 

Samuel  Loveh. 

On,  Molly  Bawn,  why  leave  me  pining, 

All  lonely,  waiting  here  for  you  ? 

While  the  stars  above  are  brightly  shining, 
Because  they’ve  nothing  else  to  do. 

The  flowers  late  were  open  keeping, 

To  try  a rival  blush  with  you ; 

But  their  mother,  Nature,  set  them  sleeping, 

With  their  rosy  faces  wash’d  with  dew. 

Oh,  Molly  Bawn,  &c. 

Now  the  pretty  flowers  were  made  to  bloom,  dear, 
And  the  pretty  stars  were  made  to  shine ; 

And  the  pretty  girls  were  made  for  the  boys,  dear, 
And  may  be  you  were  made  for  mine  ; 

The  wicked  watch-dog  here  is  snarling, 

He  takes  me  for  a thief  you  see ; 

For  he  knows  I’d  steal  you,  Molly,  darling, 

And  then  transported  I should  be. 

Oh,  Molly  Bawn,  &c. 


FAREWELL. 

CaLLANAjN". 

Though  dark  fate  hath  ’reft  me 
Of  all  that  was  sweet, 

And  widely  we  sever, 

Too  widely  to  meet, 

Oh  ! yet,  while  one  life- pulse 
Remains  in  this  heart, 

’Twill  remember  thee,  Mary, 
Wherever  thou  art. 

How  sad  were  the  glances, 

At  parting,  we  threw ; 

Ho  word  was  there  spoken, 

But  the  stifled  adieu  ; 

My  lips  o’er  thy  cold  cheek 
All  raptureless  pass’d, 

’Twas  the  first  time  I prest  it, 

It  must  be  the  last. 

But  why  should  I dwell  thus 
On  scenes  that  but  pain, 

Or  think  on  thee,  Mary, 

When  thinking  is  vain ; 

Thy  name  to  this  bosom, 

How  sounds,  like  a knell ; 

My  fond  one — my  dear  one, 

For  ever — farewell ! 


SYMPATHY. 


Mrs.  Tighf..  Born,  1773.  Died,  1810. 

Wert  thou  sad,  I would  beguile 
Thy  sadness,  by  my  tender  lay : 

Wert  thou  in  a mood  to  smile, 

With  thee,  laugh  the  hours  away. 

Didst  thou  feel  inclined  to  sleep, 

I would  watch,  and  hover  near ; 

Did  misfortune  hid  thee  weep, 

I would  give  thee  tear  for  tear. 

Not  a sigh,  that  heaved  thy  breast, 
But  I’d  echo  from  my  own  ; — 

Did  one  care  disturb  thy  rest, 

Mine,  alas ! were  also  flown. 

When  the  hour  of  death  should  come, 
I’d  receive  thy  latest  sigh ; 

Only  ask  to  share  thy  tomb, 

Then,  contented,  with  thee  die. 


The  accomplished  authoress  of  “ Psyche”  exhibits  woman’s  nature  in  its  most  beautiful 
form  in  these  verses— only  a woman  could  have  written  them : a man  never  cpuld  ’nave 
thought  of  them. 


4* 


58 


SONGS  OF  TIIE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  FAIllY  BOY. 

Samuel  Lover. 

When  a beautiful  child  pines  and  dies,  the  Irish  peasant  believes  the  healthy  infant  has 
been  stolen  by  the  fairies,  and  a sickly  elf  left  in  its  place. 

A mother  came  when  stars  were  paling, 

AV ailing  round  a lonely  spring  ; 

Thus  she  cried  while  tears  were  falling, 

Calling  on  the  Fairy  King : 

“ Why  with  spells  my  child  caressing, 

Courting  him  with  fairy  joy ; 

Why  destroy  a mother’s  blessing, 

AVherefore  steal  my  hahy  hoy  ? 

“ O’ei  the  mountain,  through  the  wild  wood, 

AYhere  his  childhood  loved  to  play ; 

AVhere  the  flowers  are  freshly  springing, 

There  I wander  day  by  day. 

There  I wander,  growing  fonder 
Of  the  child  that  made  my  joy ; 

On  the  echoes  wildly  calling, 

To  restore  my  fairy  boy. 

“ But  in  vain  my  plaintive  calling, 

Tears  are  falling  all  in  vain ; 

He  now  sports  with  fairy  pleasure, 

He’s  the  treasure  of  their  train. 

F are  thee  well,  my  child,  for  ever, 

In  this  world  I’ve  lost  my  joy  ; 

But,  in  the  next,  we  ne’er  shall  sever, 

There  I’ll  lind  my  angel  hoy !” 


THE  DEAR  IRISH  BOY. 

My  Connor,  his  cheeks  are  as  ruddy  as  morning, 

The  brightest  of  pearls  do  hut  mimic  his  teeth  ; 
While  nature  with  ringlets  his  mild  brows  adorning, 
His  hair  Cupid’s  how-strings,  and  roses  his  breath. 
Smiling,  beguiling, 

Cheering,  endearing, 

Together  how  oft  o’er  the  mountains  we  stray’d  ; 

By  each  other  delighted, 

And  fondly  united, 

I have  listened  aU  day  to  my  dear  Irish  boy. 


SONGS  OF  TIIE  AFFECTIONS. 


59 


No  roebuck  more  swift  could  fly  over  the  mountain, 

No  veteran  bolder  meet  danger  or  scars, 

He’s  sightly,  he’s  sprightly,  he’s  clear  as  the  fountain, 

His  eyes  beaming  love,  oh ! he’s  gone  to  the  wars. 

Smiling,  beguiling,  &c. 

The  soft  tuneful  lark,  his  notes  changed  to  mourning, 

The  dark- screaming  owl  impedes  my  night’s  sleep, 

While  lonely  I walk  in  the  shade  of  the  evening, 

Till  my  Connor’s  return  I will  ne’er  cease  to  weep. 

Smiling,  beguiling,  &e. 

The  war  being  over,  and  he  not  returned, 

I fear  that  some  dark  envious  plot  has  been  laid ; 

Or  that  some  cruel  goddess  has  him  captivated, 

And  left  here  to  mourn  his  dear  Irish  maid. 

Smiling,  beguiling,  &c. 

I often  heard  this  song,  in  my  boyhood,  sung  to  a very  sweet  and  plaintive  melody.  Its 
ambitious  style  of  imagery,  as  “Cupid’s  bow-strings” — and  absurdities,  as  “ dark  scream- 
ing owl,”  &c.,  stamp  it  at  once  as  the  work  of  the  hedge  schoolmaster.  If  any  doubt 
remained  as  to  the  source  of  its  authorship,  after  these  remarks,  the  “ cruel  goddess”  that 
“has  him  captivated,”  would  settle  the  matter.  Nevertheless,  with  all  its  faults,  there  is 
something  pleasing  in  this  song.  The  note  of  the  lark  “changed  to  mourning”  is  good, 
and  the  words  are,  generally,  well  suited  to  vocalization — a great  merit ; the  successive 
ringing  of  rhymes,  too,  in  the  refrain— 

“ Smiling,  beguiling, 

Cheering,  endearing,” 

falls  pleasantly  on  the  ear,  and  is  a grace  (as  I think)  peculiarly  Irish.  A more  modem 
song,  founded  on  the  above  and  sung  to  the  same  air,  follows. 


MY  CONNOH. 

On ! weary’s  on  money, — and  weary’s  on  wealth, 

And  sure  we  don’t  want  them  while  we  have  our  health : 
’Twas  they  tempted  Connor  far  over  the  sea, 

And  I lost  my  lover — my  cushla  ma  cliree.* 

Smiling — beguiling, 

Cheering — endearing, 

Oh ! dearly  I lov’d  him,  and  he  loved  me. 

By  each  other  delighted — 

And  fondly  united — 

My  heart’s  in  the  grave  with  my  cushla  ma  chree . 


Vein,  or  pulse  of  my  heart. 


60 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


My  Connor  was  handsome,  good-humoured,  and  tall ; 

At  hurling  and  dancing  the  best  of  them  all. 

But  when  he  came  courting  beneath  our  old  tree, 

His  voice  was  like  music — my  cushla  ma  cliree . 

Smiling,  &c. 

So  true  was  his  heart  and  so  artless  his  mind, 

He  could  not  think  ill  of  the  worst  of  mankind. 

He  went  bail  for  his  cousin  who  ran  beyond  sea, 

And  all  his  debts  fell  on  my  cushla  ma  chree. 

Smiling,  &c. 

Yet  still  I told  Connor  that  I’d  be  his  bride — 

In  sorrow  or  death  not  to  stir  from  his  side. 

He  said  he  could  ne’er  bring  misfortune  on  me  ; — 

But  sure  I’d  be  rich  with  my  cushla  ma  chree . 

Smiling,  &c. 

The  morning  he  left  us  I ne’er  will  forget ; 

Hot  an  eye  in  our  village  with  tears  but  was  wet, 

Don’t  cry  any  more,  oh  ma  vourneen*  said  he, 

For  I will  return  to  my  cushla  ma  chree. 

Smiling,  &c. 

Sad  as  I felt  then,  hope  was  mixed  with  my  care, — 

Alas ! I have  nothing  left  now  but  despair. 

His  ship  it  went  down  in  the  midst  of  the  sea, 

And  its  wild  waves  roll  over  my  cushla  ma  chree . 

Smiling — beguiling, 

Cheering — endearing, 

Oh ! dearly  I loved  him  and  he  loved  me. 

By  each  other  delighted — 

And  fondly  united — 

My  heart’s  in  the  grave  with  my  cushla  ma  chree . 

* My  darling. 

In  this  song  there  is  more  simplicity  and  greater  truth  of  feeling,  than  in  the  foregoing. 
The  leading  couplet  of  the  third  verse — 

So  true  was  his  heart  and  so  artless  his  mind. 

He  could  not  think  ill  of  the  worst  of  mankind.” 

is  deserving  of  mark,  and  the  going  “bail  for  his  cousin,”  however  homely  the  illustration, 
is  a truthful  characteristic  of  a confiding  nature. 


SONGS  OF  TIIE  AFFECTIONS. 


61 


EILEEN  AROON.* 

Gerald  Griffin. 


"When,  like  the  early  rose, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Beauty  in  cliildlioocl  blows  ; 

Eileen  aroon ! 

When,  like  a diadem, 

Buds  blush  around  the  stem, 

Which  is  the  fairest  gem  ? 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Is  it  the  laughing  eye, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Is  it  the  timid  sigh, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Is  it  the  tender  tone, 

Soft  as  the  string’d  harp’s  moan? 

Oh,  it  is  truth  alone. 

Eileen  aroon ! 

When,  like  the  rising  day, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Love  sends  his  early  ray, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

What  makes  his  dawning  glow 
Changeless  through  joy  or  woe? 

Only  the  constant  know — 

Eileen  aroon ! 

I know  a valley  fair, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

I knew  a cottage  there, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Ear  in  that  valley’s  shade, 

I knew  a gentle  maid, 

Flower  of  a hazel  glade, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Who  in  the  song  so  sweet  ? 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Who  in  the  dance  so  fleet  ? 

Eileen  aroon ! 

• For  the  convenience  of  the  English  reader  the  sound,  of  the  Irish  title  is  given,  in  this 
spelling  of  it.  In  its  native  form  it  is  spelt  Eibhlin  a ruin — meaning  “ Ellen  my  secret 
love.”  A closer  approximation  to  the  pronunciation  would  be  obtained  by  the  spelling 
Ile-yeen ; but  that  is  too  far  removed  from  the  native  orthography. 


02 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Dear  were  her  charms  to  me, 

Dearer  her  laughter  free, 

Dearest  her  constancy, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Were  she  no  longer  true, 

Eileen  aroon  ! 

What  should  her  lover  do  ? 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Fly  with  his  broken  chain 
F ar  o’er  the  sounding  main, 

Never  to  love  again, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Youth  must  with  time  decay, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Beauty  must  fade  away, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Castles  are  sacked  in  war, 

Chieftains  are  scattered  far, 

Truth  is  a fixed  star, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

The  old  Irish  air  to  which  this  is  written  is  called  “ Eileen  Aroon  j”  is  very  ancient  and  of 
great  beauty.  The  Scotch  claim  it  under  the  title  of  “ Eobin  Adair  j”  but  it  is  altered,  much 
for  the  worse,  a lilting  character,  or  what  Dr.  Burney  calls  the  Scotch  snap,  being  given  to 
the  third  and  seventh  bars  of  the  first  part  of  the  air,  and  the  seventh  bar  of  the  second 
part.  Burns,  whose  ear  was  so  finely  attuned  to  sweet  measures,  objects  to  it,  on  this  very 
account ; here  are  his  words : — 

“ I have  tried  my  hand  on  ‘ Robin  Adair,’  and  you  will  probably  think  with  little  success : 
but  it  is  such  a cursed,  cramp,  out-of-the-way  measure,  that  I despair  of  doing  anything 
better  to  it.” — Burns  to  Mr.  Thomson,  August,  1793. 

Now,  the  Irish  air,  in  its  original  purity,  is  as  smooth  as  an  unbroken  ascending 
and  descending  scale  can  make  it  j it  is  anything  but  the  “ cursed,  cramp,  out-of-the-way 
measure,"  of  which  Burns’  sensitive  ear  was  so  painfully  conscious  in  the  Scottish  form. 


THE  BLUSH  OF  MORN. 

Translated  from  the  Irish  by  Miss  Balfotjb. 

The  blush  of  morn -at  length  appears  ; 
The  hawthorn  weeps  in  dewy  tears ; 
Emerging  from  the  shades  of  night, 

The  distant  hills  are  tipped  with  light ; 


SCXN’GS  OF  TI1E  AFFECTION’S. 


C3 


The  swelling  breeze,  with  balmy  breath, 

Wafts  fragrance  from  the  purple  heath  ; 

And  warbling  woodlarks  seem  to  say, 

Sweet  Anna ! ’tis  the  dawn  of  day ! 

Ah ! didst  thou  Love’s  soft  anguish  feel, 

No  sleep  thy  weary  eye  would  seal ; 

But  to  the  hank  thou  wouldst  repair, 

Secure  to  meet  thy  lover  there. 

In  pity  to  my  pangs  awake  ! 

Unwilling  I thy  slumbers  break; 

But  longer  absence  would  betray 
I met  thee  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

Yet  though  our  parents  now  may  frown, 

Some  pitying  power  our  vows  shall  crown  ; 

Be  constancy  and  truth  but  thine, 

While  youth,  and  health,  and  love  are  mine  ; 

Then  shall  our  hearts  united  glow 
With  all  that  fondness  can  'bestow, 

And  love  extend  his  gentle  sway 
O’er  close  of  eve  and  dawn  of  day. 

These  words  are  adapted  to  a graceful  air  in  “A  General  Collection  of  the  Ancient  Music 
of  Ireland,”  by  Edward  Bunting;  the  melody  is  entitled  “The  Dawning  of  the  Day;”  but 
there  is  another  and  liner  Irish  melody  of  the  same  name. 


I NE’ER  COULD  ANY  LUSTRE  SEE. 

Sheridan. 

I ne’er  could  any  lustre  see, 

In  eyes,  that  would  not  look  on  me ; 

I ne’er  saw  nectar  on  a lip, 

But  where  my  own  did  hope  to  sip. 

Has  the  maid,  who  seeks  my  heart, 
Cheeks  of  rose,  untouched  by  art  ? 

I will  own  the  colour  true, 

When  yielding  blushes  aid  their  hue. 

Is  her  hand  so  soft  and  pure  ? 

I must  press  it,  to  be  sure  ; 

Nor  can  I be  certain  then, 

’Till  it  grateful  press  again . 


64 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Must  I,  with,  attentive  eye, 

Watch  her  heaving  "bosom  sigh? 

I will  do  so,  when  I see 

That  heaving  bosom  sigh  for  me. 

These  are  graceful  lines,  but  they  cannot  fail  to  remind  us  of  “ Shall  I like  a hermit 
dwell?”  attributed  to  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  the  concluding  couplet  of  the  first  verse  of 
which  is  as  follows : — 

“ If  she  undervalue  me, 

What  care  I how  fair  she  be  ? ” 

And  this  burden  running,  with  slight  variety,  through  Raleigh’s  song,  is  the  germ  of  the 
idea  in  Sheridan.  Sheridan,  however,  is  not  the  only  one  open  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism, 
for  the  happy  idea  had  sufficient  fascination  to  induce  George  Wither  to  take  it  up ; but  he 
certainly  wrought  it  out  still  more  beautifully  in  his  exquisite  song  “ Shall  I,  wasting  in 
despair?” — so  exquisite  as  to  tempt  me  to  the  insertion  of  the  first  verse,  even  at  the 
expense  of  throwing  Sheridan,  so  far,  into  the  shade.  The  author  of  “ The  School  for 
Scandal,”  however,  can  afford  it. 

“ Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair. 

Die  because  a woman’s  fair  ? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care, 

’Cause  another’s  rosy  are  ? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day. 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May; 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me. 

What  care  I how  fair  she  be  ?” 


MOLLY  ASTOKE.* 

From  the  Irish.  Translated  by  S.  Ferguson,  M.R.I.A, 

Oh,  Mary  dear — ob,  Mary  fair, 

Oh,  branch  of  generous  stem, 

White  blossom  of  the  banks  of  Nair, 
Though  lilies  grow  on  them ; 

You’ve  left  me  sick  at  heart  for  love, 

So  faint  I cannot  see  ; 

The  candle  swims  the  board  above, 

I’m  drunk  for  love  of  thee  ! 

Oh,  stately  stem  of  maiden  pride, 

My  woe  it  is  and  pain, 

That  I,  thus  severed  from  thy  side, 

The  long  night  must  remain. 

* Molly  my  treasure. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Go 


Through  all  the  towns  of  Innisfail 
I’ve  wandered  far  and  wide, 

But,  from  Downpatrick  to  Kinsale, 

From  Carlow  to  Kilbride, 

’Mong  lords  and  dames  of  high  degree, 
Where’er  my  feet  have  gone, 

My  Mary,  one  to  equal  thee 
I never  looked  upon : 

I live  in  darkness  and  in  doubt 
Whene’er  my  love’s  away — 

But  were  the  gracious  sun  put  out, 

Her  shadow  would  make  day. 

’Tis  she,  indeed,  young  hud  of  bliss, 

And  gentle  as  she’s  fair — 

Though  lily-white  her  bosom  is, 

And  sunny  bright  her  hair, 

And  dewy  azure  her  blue  eye, 

And  rosy  red  her  cheek, 

Yet  brighter  she  in  modesty, 

More  beautifully  meek ! 

The  world’s  wise  men,  from  north  to  south 
Can  never  ease  my  pain — 

But  one  kiss  from  her  honey  mouth 
Would  make  me  well  again. 


SUCH  WAS  THE  EYE. 

From  the  Irish. 

Such  was  the  eye,  that  won  my  love, 

And  thrilled  me  with  its  brilliant  glance  ; 

And  such  the  form  that  once  could  move — • 
The  voice  could  charm,  the  smile  entrance. 

I view  thee,  fairest,  and  I sigh, 

Thou  look’st  so  like  what  once  was  mine ; 

Her  red,  red,  lip,  and  sparkling  eye, 

And  voice,  and  smile,  were  just  like  thine. 

She’s  gone — inconstant  as  the  wind, 

That  wantons  with  the  summer  flower ; 

She’s  gone — but  madness  stays  behind ; 

And  heartless  home,  and  joyless  bower. 

A fading  eye,  a powerless  hand, 

When,  o’er  the  strings,  it  fain  would  stray ; 

Deserted  steed,  and  idle  brand, 

All  tell  me  that  my  love’s  away. 


THE  GREEN  SPOT  THAT  BLOOMS  ON  THE  DESERT 
OF  LIFE. 

Rt.  Hon.  John  Philpot  Curran,  Master  of  the  Rolls  in  Ireland. 

John  Philpot  Curran  was  born  at  Newmarket,  in  the  county  of  Cork,  in  1750,  and  died  in 
1817.  Though  the  following  song  is  remarkably  sweet,  and  expressive  of  an  affectionate 
nature,  yet  it  is  not  by  such  a trifle  that  Curran  is  to  be  judged.  Indeed,  he  wrote  but  few 
verses,  and  those  must  be  considered  as  mere  vers  de  Societe,  thrown  off  to  amuse,  rather 
than  to  command  admiration.  But  though  Curran  did  not  write  poetry  (commonly  so 
called)  his  speeches  abound  in  the  highest  poetic  qualities : — vividness  of  imagery— felicity 
of  diction — intensity  of  expression— force  and  suddeimess  of  contrast.  As  a potent  orator 
and  an  undaunted  patriot  in  the  most  dangerous  times,  John  Philpot  Curran  must  be 
classed  among  the  highest  in  the  annals  of  Ireland. 

On  the  desert  of  life,  where  you  vainly  pursued 

Those  phantoms  of  hope,  which  their  promise  disown, 

Have  you  e’er  met  some  spirit,  divinely  endued, 

That  so  kindly  could  say,  you  don’t  suffer  alone  ? 

And,  however  your  fate  may  have  smiled,  or  have  frowned, 

Will  she  deign,  still,  to  share  as  the  friend  or  the  wife  ? 

Then  make  her  the  pulse  of  your  heart ; for  you’ve  found 
The  green  spot  that  blooms  on  the  desert  of  life. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


67 


Does  slie  love  to  recall  tlie  past  moments,  so  dear, 

When  the  sweet  pledge  of  faith  was  confidingly  ghtii, 
When  the  lip  spoke  the  voice  of  affection  sincere, 

And  the  vow  was  exchanged,  and  recorded  in  heaven 
Does  she  wish  to  re-hind,  what  already  was  bound, 

And  draw  closer  the  claims  of  the  friend  and  the  wife  r 
Then  make  her  the  pulse  of  your  heart ; for  you’ve  found 
The  green  spot  that  blooms  on  the  desert  of  life. 


WHEN  SABLE  NIGHT. 

Shehidan. 

When  sable  night,  each  drooping  plant  restoring, 

Wept  o’er  her  flowers,  her  breath  did  cheer, 

As  some  sad  widow  o’er  her  babe  deploring, 

Wakes  its  beauty  with  a tear — 

When  all  did  sleep  whose  weary  hearts  could  borrow 
One  hour  of  love  from  care  to  rest ; 

Lo  ! as  I press’d  my  couch  in  silent  sorrow 
My  lover  caught  me  to  his  breast. 

He  vow’d  he  came  to  save  me 
From  those  that  would  enslave  me ; 

Then  kneeling, 

Kisses  stealing, 

Endless  faith  he  swore  ! 

But  soon  I chid  him  thence, 

For,  had  his  fond  pretence 
Obtain’d  one  favour  then, 

And  he  had  press’d  again, 

I fear’d  my  treach’rous  heart  might  grant  him  more. 

Burns,  in  his  correspondence  with  Mr.  George  Thomson  the  publisher,  writes  thus  : — 
“There  is  a pretty  English  song  by  Sheridan,  in  ‘The  Duenna,’  to  this  air,  which  is  out 
of  sight  superior  to  D’Urfey’s.  It  begins — 

* When  sable  night  each  drooping  plant  restoring.’ 

“The  air,  if  I understand  the  expression  of  it  properly,  is  the  very  native  language  of 
simplicity,  tenderness,  and  love.  I have  again  gone  over  my  song  to  the  tune,  as  follows: — 

* Sleep’st  thou  or  wak’st  thou,  fairest  creature  ? 

Eosy  morn  now  lifts  his  eye. 

Numbering  ilka  bud  which  Nature 
Waters  with  the  tears  of  joy'  ” 

The  idea  conveyed  in  the  words  I have  given  in  Italics,  is  but  the  repetition  of  Sheridan’s 
idea  of  Sable  Night  weeping  over  her  flowers 


68 


SONGS  Of  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Oil  TELL  ME,  SWEET  KATE. 

Lady  Morgan. 

The  following  stanzas  are  taken  from  “ Irish  Melodies,  by  Miss  S.  Owenson”  (the  maiden 
name  of  Lady  Morgan).  She,  as  well  as  the  Hon.  Geo.  Ogle,  G.  N.  Reynolds,  and  Edward 
Lysaght,  was  before  Moore  in  the  worthy  work  of  introducing  to  the  notice  of  the  world 
the  melodies  of  her  native  land  by  means  of  suitable  verse  adapted  to  them,  and  thus  may 
be  honourably  noted  among  the  precursors  ofthe  illustrious  bard  who  crowned  the  patriotic 
work  by  giving  world-wide  celebrity  to  the  Irish  melodies,  and  who  so  often  mingled  with 
the  charm  of  his  song  a plea  for  his  country.  Lady  Morgan’s  verses  did  not  aim  so  high ; — 
but  her  novels  did: — the  authoress  of  “O’Donnell”  and  “Florence  McCarthy”  is  among 
the  most  freedom-loving  and  sparkling  of  the  Irish  novelists. 

On  tell  me,  sweet  Kate,  by  what  magical  art, 

You  seduced  ev’ry  thought,  ev’ry  wish  of  my  soul  ? 

Oh  tell  how  my  credulous  fond  doating  heart, 

By  thy  wiles  and  thy  charms  from  my  bosom  was  stole. 

Oil  whence,  dangerous  girl,  was  thy  sorcery,  tell, 

By  which  you  awaken’d  love’s  tear  and  love’s  sigh  ; — 

In  tliy  voice,  in  thy  song,  lurks  the  dangerous  spell  P 
In  the  blush  of  thy  cheek,  or  the  beam  of  thine  eye  ? 


MY  LOVE’S  THE  EAIREST  CREATURE. 

Lady  Morgan. 

My  love’s  the  fairest  creature, 

And  round  her  Rutters  many  a charm, 

Her  starry  eyes,  blue-beaming, 

Can  e’en  the  coldest  bosom  warm ; 

Her  lip  is  like  a cherry 
Ripely  sueing  to  be  cuR’d  ; 

Her  cheek  is  like  a May  rose 
In  dewy  freshness  newly  pull’d. 

Her  sigh  is  like  the  sweet  gale, 

That  dies  upon  the  violet’s  breast, 

Her  hair  is  like  the  dark  mist, 

On  which  the  evening  sunbeams  rest ; 

Her  smile  is  like  the  false  light 

Which  lures  the  traveller  by  its  beam ; 

Her  voice  is  like  the  soft  strain, 

Which  steals  its  soul  from  passion’s  dream. 


songs  of  the  affections. 


63 


CATE*  OF  ABAGLEN. 

Air,  “An  Cailin  Ruadh.” 

These  sweet  stanzas  appeared  in  “The  Spirit  of  the  Nation”  under  the  signature  of 
Domhnall  Gleannach,  and  the  rhythm  of  the  beautiful  air  to  which  they  are  adapted  has 
been  preserved  with  a fidelity  that  proves  praiseworthy  care  and  a nice  ear  on  the  part  of 
the  writer.  The  rhythm  is  so  peculiar,  that,  without  knowing  the  air,  a reader  is  liable  to 
miss  the  proper  accentuation  of  the  lines,  and  therefore,  to  insure  his  pleasure  in  enjoying 
their  harmony,  I venture  to  point  it  out.— Let  the  accent  be  laid  on  the  fourth  syllable  of 
every  line. 


When  first  I saw  thee,  Cate, 

That  summer  evening  late, 

Down  at  the  orchard  gate 
Of  Araglen, 

I felt  I ne’er  before 
Saw  one  so  fair,  a-stor ,f 
I fear’d  I’d  never  more 
See  thee  agen. 

I stopp’d  and  gazed  at  thee, 

My  footfall,  luckily 
lleach’d  not  thy  ear,  tho’  we 
Stood  there  so  near ; 

While  from  thy  lips,  a strain, 

Soft  as  the  summer  rain, 

Sad  as  a lover’s  pain, 

Fell  on  my  ear. 

I’ve  heard  the  lark  in  June, 

The  harp’s  wild  plaintive  tune, 

The  thrush,  that  aye  too  soon 
Gives  o’er  his  strain  ; 

I’ve  heard,  in  hush’d  deli  ght 
The  mellow  horn  at  night 
Waking  the  echoes  light 
Of  wild  Loch  Lein  ; J 
But  neither  echoing  horn, 

Nor  thrush  upon  the  thorn, 

Nor  lark  at  early  morn 
Hymning  in  air, 

Nor  harper’s  lay  divine, 

E’er  witch’d  this  heart  of  mine 
Like  that  sweet  voice  of  thine, 

That  evening  there. 

* Thus  spelt  in  the  original.  Caitlin  is  the  true  spelling  of  the  name  which  more  fre- 
quently appears  in  Anglo-Irish  songs  as  “Kathleen.” 
t Oh,  treasure. 


X Killarney. 


70 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


And  when  some  rustling,  dear, 
Fell  on  thy  list’ning  ear, 

You  thought  your  brother  near, 
And  nam’d  his  name, 

I could  not  answer — though, 

As  luck  would  have  it  so, 

His  name  and  mine,  you  know, 
Were  both  the  same — 
Hearing  no  answ’ring  sound, 

You  glanced  in  doubt  around, 
With  timid  look,  and  found 
It  was  not  he  ; 

Turning  away  your  head 
And,  blushing  rosy  red, 

Like  a wild  fawn  you  tied 
Far,  far  from  me. 

The  swan  upon  the  lake, 

The  wild  rose  in  the  brake, 

The  golden  clouds  that  make 
The  west  their  throne, 

The  wild  ash  by  the  stream, 

The  full  moon’s  silver  beam, 

The  evening  star’s  soft  gleam, 
Shining  alone ; 

The  lily  rob’d  in  white — 

All — all  are  fair  and  bright: — » 
But  ne’er  on  earth  was  sight 
So  bright,  so  fair, 

As  that  one  glimpse  of  thee 
That  I caught  then,  ma  cliree* 

It  stole  my  heart  from  me 
That  evening  there. 

And  now  you’re  mine  alone, 

That  heart  is  all  my  own — 

That  heart,  that  ne’er  hath  known 
A tlame  before, 

That  form,  of  mould  divine, 

That  snowy  hand  of  thine, 

Those  locks  of  gold  are  mine 
For  evermore. 

Was  lover  ever  seen 
As  blest  as  thine,  Caitlin  ? 

Hath  ever  lover  been 

More  fond,  more  true  ? 


My  heart. 


soxgs  op  the  affections.  71 

Tliine  is  my  ev’ry  vow ! 

For  ever  dear,  as  now ! 

Queen  of  my  heart  he  thou ! 

My  Colleen  r/m.f 

t In  the  original  mo  cailinruadh; — that  is  to  say,  “my  red  girl,”  meaning  red-haired 
girl.  De  gustibus,  &, c.  But  let  us  suppose  the  lady’s  locks  were  auburn.  Those,  however, 
who  look  on  a beloved  object  with  eyes  of  admiration  care  little  for  form  or  tint  Desdemona 
“ Saw  Othello’s  visage  in  his  mind.” 

The  Scotch  lady  who  so  profoundly  admired  the  late  eloquent  Doctor  Irving,  reconciled 
herself  to  his  squint  by  declaring,  “ he  gleyed  na  mair  than  a mon  o’  genius  suld.” 


THE  LOYE  SICK  MAID. 

The  winter  it  is  past, 

And  the  summer’s  come  at  last, 

And  the  small  birds  sing  on  every  tree  ; 
The  hearts  of  those  are  glad, 

Whilst  mine  is  very  sad  ; 

Whilst  my  true  love  is  absent  from  me. 

I’ll  put  on  my  cap  of  black, 

And  fringe  about  my  neck, 

And  rings  on  my  lingers  I’ll  wear ; 

All  this  I’ll  undertake, 

For  true  lover’s  sake, 

For  he  rides  at  the  Curragh  of  Kildare. 

A livery  I’ll  wear, 

And  I’ll  comb  down  my  hair, 

And  I’ll  dress  in  the  velvet  so  green; 
Straightways  I will  repair 
To  the  Curragh  of  Kildare. 

And  ’tis  there  I will  get  ty  dings  of  him. 

With  patience  she  did  wait, 

Till  they  ran  for  the  plate, 

In  thinking  young  Johnston  to  see  ; 

But  Fortune  prov’d  unkind, 

To  that  sweetheart  of  mine 
For  he’s  gone  to  Lurgan  for  me. 

I should  not  think  it  strange, 

The  wide  world  for  to  range, 

If  I could  obtain  my  heart’s  delight : 

But  here  in  Cupid’s  chains 
I’m  obliged  to  remain, 

Whilst  in  tears  do  I spend  the  whole  night. 


72 


SONGS  OF  TIIF.  AFFECTIONS. 


My  love  is  like  the  sun, 

That  in  the  firmament  doth  run, 

Which.  is  always  constant  and  true  : 

But  your’s  is  like  the  moon, 

That  doth  wander  up  and  down 
And  in  every  month  it’s  new. 

All  you  that  are  in  love, 

And  cannot  it  remove, 

F or  you  pittied  are  by  me : 

Experience  makes  me  know 
That  your  heart  is  full  of  woe, 

Since  my  true  love  is  absent  from  me. 

Farewell  my  joy  and  heart, 

Since  you  and  1 must  part, 

You  are  the  fairest  that  I e’er  did  see; 

And  I never  do  design, 

For  to  alter  my  mind 
Although  you  are  below  my  degree. 

The  foregoing  is  taken  from  the  “ Roxburg  Collection”  (Vol.  iii,  No.  680,)  in  the  British 
Museum.  The  celebrated  race-course  the  Curragh  of  Kildare  and  also  the  town  of  Lurgan 
being  named  in  the  ballad,  prove  it  to  be  Irish.  It  has  appeared,  however,  in  collections 
of  Scotch  Songs,  the  verses  that  prove  its  Irish  origin  being  omitted;  the  second  being 
written  by  Burns  (as  given  below),  and  the  fourth  slightly  altered  from  the  seventh  of  the 
original.  Its  latest  Scottish  appearance  was  made  in  Wood’s  “Songs  of  Scotland,”  1851— 
a collection  wherein  many  songs  and  airs  are  given  which  are  decidedly  not  Scotch. 

Here  is  the  Scottish  version  with  the  title  altered,  which  the  reader  can  compare  with 
the  Irish  original,  and  may  remark  that  there  is  not  a single  Scotticism  in  the  composition. 

THE  WINTER  IT  IS  PAST. 

The  winter  it  is  past,  and  the  summer’s  come  at  last. 

And  the  small  birds  sing  on  ev’ry  tree ; 

Now  ev’ry  thing  is  glad,  when  I am  very  sad ; 

For  my  true  love  is  parted  from  me. 

The  rose  upon  the  briar,  by  the  waters  running  clear. 

May  have  charms  for  the  linnet  or  the  bee ; 

Their  little  loves  are  blest,  and  their  little  hearts  at  rest; 

But  my  true  love  is  parted  from  me. 

My  love  is  like  the  sun,  that  in  the  sky  doth  run 
For  ever  so  constant  and  true ; 

But  his  is  like  the  moon,  that  wanders  up  and  down. 

And  every  month  it  is  new. 

All  you  that  are  in  love,  and  cannot  it  remove, 

I pity  the  pains  you  endure ; 

For  experience  makes  me  know,  that  your  hearts  are  full  of  woe, 

A woe  that  no  mortal  can  cure. 

A still  more  remarkable  appropriation  of  an  Irish  song  may  be  noticed  in  “ The  Banks  of 
Banna,”  which  follows. 


SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


73 


THE  BAXES  OF  BAHRA. 

Et.  Hon.  Geobge  Ogee. 

Shepheeds,  I have  lost  my  love, 

Have  you  seen  my  Anna  ? 

Pride  of  every  shady  grove 
Upon  the  hanks  of  Banna. 

I for  her  my  home  forsook, 

Hear  yon  misty  mountain, 

Left  my  flocks,  my  pipe,  my  crook, 

Greenwood  shade,  and  fountain. 

Never  shall  I see  them  more 
Until  her  returning ; 

All  the  joys  of  life  are  o’er  — 

From  gladness  chang’d  to  mourning. 

Whither  is  my  charmer  flown  ? 

Shepherds,  tell  me  whither  ? 

Ah ! woe  for  me,  perhaps  she’s  gone, 

For  ever  and  for  ever ! 

It  is  very  little  short  of  a century  since  this  song  was  written  by  Hr.  Ogle,  to  the  beau- 
tiful melody  generally  known  as  “ The  Banks  of  Banna,”  hut  whose  ancient  title  is  “ Down 
beside  me.”  It  is,  one  may  say,  notoriously  Irish,  yet  it  has  been  published  in  W ood’s 
“Songs  of  Scotland,”  1851,  with  the  note,  that  “the  air  has  been  sometimes  claimed  as 
Irish.”  It  would  be  little  less  ridiculous  if  the  editor  had  said  that  “ St.  Patrick’s  Day” 
had  been  sometimes  claimed  as  Irish. 

The  air  has  been  long  coveted  by  the  Scotch  publishers  and  editors,  for,  as  far  back  as 
1793,  Bums  thus  writes  to  Hr.  George  Thomson:  “You  are  quite  right  in  inserting  the  last 
five  in  your  list,  though  they  are  certainly  Irish.  ‘Shepherds,  I have  lost  my  love,5  (Banks 
of  Banna),  is,  to  me,  a heavenly  air.  What  would  you  think  of  a set  of  Scottish  verses  to 
it?******  Set  the  tune  to  it,  and  let  the  Irish  verses  follow.” — Burns  to 
Thomson,  April  7,  1793. 

Here  Bums  honestly  confesses  the  air  (as  well  as  four  others  Hr.  Thomson  set  down 
for  appropriation)  to  he  Irish.  The  beauty  of  the  air  inspires  him  with  the  desire  to  adapt 
words  to  it;  but,  he  adds,  “let  the  Irish  verses  follow.”  Burns  did  not  want  to  defraud 
Ireland  of  any  honour  to  which  she  was  entitled,  hut  he  was  not  successful  in  the  lines  he 
wrote  to  the  melody,  and  they  were  rejected  by  Mr.  Thomson,  and  no  wonder : for  what 
could  be  hoped  of  a song  beginning  thus  ? 

“Yestreen  I got  a pint  of  wine, 

A place  where  body  saw  na : 

Yestreen  lay  on  this  breast  of  mine 
The  gowden  locks  of  Anna.” 

It  is  surprising  how  Bums  could  have  written  such  trash. 

So  much  for  the  attempt  to  appropriate  “ The  Banks  of  Banna”  in  1793.  But  Mr.  George 


O 


74 


SONUS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Thomson  was  too  keen  a poacher  to  let  his  game  escape  him,  so,  in  1824,  he  took  a shot  at 
the  Irish  melody  himself,  but  missed  it,  decidedly.  Here  are  his  lines 

“ Dearest  Anna  grieve  not  so, 

Tho’  we’re  doom’d  this  hour  to  part; 

Fortune  long  hath  prov’d  my  foe, 

But  never  can  subdue  my  heart. 

Forced  to  distant  climes,  I fly,— 

Climes  where  gold  and  diamonds  grow; 

For  thee  to  toil,  for  thee  to  sigh, 

’Till  that  blest  day  which  seals  my  vow. 

“No  ship  shall  leave  those  sunny  seas 
Without  some  token  kind  and  true ; 

And  I will  hail  the  fav’ring  breeze 
That  brings  sweet  tidings  back  from  you. 

Thus  lingering  years  their  course  will  roll, 

And  absence  only  more  endear 
Those  ties  which  bind  us  soul  to  soul — 

’Till  Fate  again  shall  waft  me  here.” 

Such  mere  jingle,  might,  under  any  circumstances,  have  been  thrown  into  the  fire  without 
the  world  being  a loser ; but  when  we  remember  that  Moore,  in  1S10,  had  written  his 
charming  lines  “On  Music”  to  this  melody  of  “The  Banks  of  Banna,”  the  attempt  of  Mr. 
Thomson  savours  of  presumption.  Moore’s  song  begins  thus : — 

“When  thro’  life  unblest  we  rove, 

Losing  all  that  made  life  dear, 

Should  some  notes  we  used  to  love 
In  days  of  boyhood,  meet  our  ear, 

Oh ! how  welcome  breathes  the  strain ! 

Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept; 

Kindling  former  smiles  again  ■ 

In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept.” 

Comparing,  then,  the  “ breath  of  song”  to  the  breeze  that  “ sighs  along  beds  of  oriental 
flowers,”  he  says,  that  after  the  flowers  die,  the  gale  still  partakes  of  their  sweetness — and 

“ So  when  pleasure’s  dream  is  gone 
Its  memory  lives  in  Music’s  breath.” 

Thus  he  concludes, 

“ Music,  oh  how  faint,  how  weak 
Language  fades  before  thy  spell ! 

Why  should  Feeling  ever  speak. 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 

Friendship’s  balmy  words  may  feign, 

Love’s  are  ev’n  more  false  than  they ; 

Oh ! ’tis  only  Music’s  strain 
Can  sweetly  soothe  and  not  betray.” 

Though  we  have  thus  traced  the  air  and  song  of  “ The  Banks  of  Banna,”  up  to  1821— we 
have  something  more  to  add.  It  has  been  shown  that  the  Scotch  publisher  was  foiled  in 
his  attempt  to  get  Scottish  words  to  an  Irish  melody  in  1793;  and  that  the  attempt  at 
adapting  words  in  1824  was  a failure ; but  the  publisher  of  1851,  gets  over  the  difficulty  by 
appropriating  the  Irish  song  altogether,  both  words  and  music. 

This  is  Scottish  song-making-made-easy,  with  a vengeance. 


if  a country  that  has  a reputation  for 
hospitality  and  good-fellowship  in  a 
high  degree,  and  where  fun  is  sup- 
posed to  have  always  abounded,  what- 
ever scarcity  might  prevail  in  other 
matters,  one  would  expect  to  find  songs 
under  the  title  which  heads  this  sec- 
tion, in  abundance ; yet,  considering 
that  these  two  classes  of  song  have 
been  clubbed  together  to  make  one 
section,  the  number  is  less  than  might 
have  been  anticipated ; but  ‘ ‘ the  reason 
why”  can  readily  be  given.  Songs  ad- 
vocating drinking — mere  incentives  to 
swilling — are  so  repugnant  to  modern 
taste,  that  only  few,  and  those  of  high  merit,  have  been  selected,  as 
illustrating  a particular  period  of  society,  and  as  specimens  necessary 


76 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


to  illustrate  a certain  class  of  lyric  literature.  That  period  of  society 
has  happily  gone  by,  when  a man  was  scarcely  considered  to  be 
a man  until  he  had  learned  how  to  become  a beast;  when  exces- 
sive drinking  was  looked  upon  as  a sort  of  social  virtue — a thing 
to  be  proud  of.  Addison  well  remarks  in  the  “The  Spectator,” 
(No.  569,)  “Novices  are  so  incurable  as  those  which  men  are  apt 
to  glory  in ; one  would  wonder  how  drunkenness  should  have  the 
good  luck  to  be  of  the  number.”  Yet  Addison  himself  increased  the 
wonder  by  yielding,  in  his  latter  days,  to  the  very  vice  against  which 
he  wrote  an  eloquent  essay.  But  drinking  was  not  only  “ gloried  in;” 
it  was  considered,  by  some,  a sort  of  duty  independent  of  sociality ; 
for  even  if  you  could  not  get  a companion  for  your  drinking-bout 
(a  rare  case  of  default),  still  you  must  drink;  and,  in  such  a case,  a 
certain  Galway  gentleman’s  ingenuity  was  displayed  by  “ his  drink- 
ing his  right  hand  against  his  left.” 

With  this  vicious  habit  of  society  passed  away  the  vicious  style  of 
song ; but  I am  pleased  to  notice,  that,  even  before  hard  drinking  had 
quite  gone  out,  it  was  an  Irishman  who  first  divested  the  convivial 
song  of  much  that  was  coarse,  and  invested  it  with  much  of  witty 
allusion — I mean  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan ; and,  after  him,  Thomas 
Moore  in  a still  greater  degree  redeemed  the  bacchanalian  lyric  from 
what  was  censurable,  not  only  excluding  all  that  was  offensive,  but 
wreathing  the  wine-cup  with  some  of  the  brightest  flowers  of  poesy. 
What  an  admirable  image  is  this  in  the  third  verse  of  ‘ ‘ One  bumper 
at  parting,” — 

“ IIow  brilliant  the  sun  look’d  in  sinking! 

The  waters  beneath  him  how  bright ! 

Oh ! trust  me,  the  farewell  of  drinking 
Should  be  like  the  farewell  of  light. 

You  saw  how  he  finished  by  darting 
His  beam  o’er  a bright  billow’s  brim — 

So,  fill  up,  let’s  shine  at  our  parting 
In  full  liquid  glory,  like  him.” 

And  what  tenderness  and  fancy  in  these  concluding  lines  of  a verse 
in  “Doth  not  a meeting  like  this  :” — 

“ Though  haply  o’er  some  of  your  brows,  as  o’er  mine, 

The  snow-fall  of  time  may  be  stealing — what  then  ? 

Like  Alps  in  the  sunset,  thus  lighted  by  wine, 

We’ll  wear  the  gay  tinge  of  youth’s  roses  again.” 

But  his  crowning  bacchanalian  song  is  “Fill  the  bumper  fair.” 
How  elegantly  it  begins  : — 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


77 


11  Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O’er  the  brow  of  care 
Smooths  away  a wrinkle.” 

This  is  followed  up  with  the  brightest  invention  and  most  sparkling 
wit  throughout.  Among  other  witty  things,  asking  why  we  inherit 
“ the  ennobling  thirst  from  wine’s  celestial  spirit/’  he  says,  it  chanced 
upon  a day 

“ When,  as  bards  inform  us, 

Prometheus  stole  away 
The  living  fires  that  warm  us : ” 

Prometheus  having  forgotten  to  bring  anything  with  him  to  steal  the 
lire  in,  looks  about,  and 

“ Among  the  stars  he  found 
A bowl  of  Bacchus  lying.” 

Then  comes  the  fanciful  conclusion  : — 

“ Some  sparks  were  in  the  bowl, 

Eemains  of  last  night’s  pleasure, 

With  which  the  sparks  of  soul 
Mix’d  their  burning  treasure. 

Hence  the  goblet’s  shower 
Hath  such  spells  to  win  us ; 

Hence  its  mighty  power 
O’er  that  flame  within  us.” 

This,  I venture  to  say,  is  the  wittiest  bacchanalian  song  overwritten. 

With  respect  to  the  comic,  the  choice  has  also  been  limited  by 
considerations  of  truth  and  propriety.  Allusions  having  already 
been  made,  in  the  preface,  to  this  portion  of  editorial  duty,  the  same 
ground  must  not  be  gone  over  again  further  than  to  say,  that,  with 
respect  to  truth,  it  would  be  a violation  of  it  to  admit  numerous  songs, 
that  have  been  hitherto  considered  Irish  comic  songs,  as  representative 
of  Ireland  in  any  way,  as  regards  either  national  habits  or  national 
wit.  And  with  respect  to  propriety,  it  would  be  a violation  of  that 
also,  to  present  to  the  reader  a heap  of  course  vulgarity  unredeemed 
by  either  wit  or  humour.  Therefore  much  has  been  excluded  that 
has  been  considered  the  regular  stock-in-trade  of  Irish  comic  songs, 
but  no  one  who  respects  either  Ireland  or  good  taste  will  regret  it ; 
and  while  those  who  will  tolerate  a certain  licence  of  expression  foi 
fun’s  sake,  will  find  some  songs  here  to  gratify  them,  yet  those 
specimens  have  been  so  guardedly  admitted,  that  I trust  they  could 
not  be  objected  to  by  the  most  fastidious. 


78 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


LET  THE  TOAST  PASS. 

Sheridait. 

Here’s  to  the  maiden  of  bashful  fifteen, 

Here’s  to  the  widow  of  fifty; 

Here’s  to  the  flaunting  extravagant  quean, 

And  here’s  to  the  housewife  that’s  thrifty: 
Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass, 

Diink  to  the  lass, 

I’ll  warrant  she’ll  prove  an  excuse  for  the  glass. 

Here’s  to  the  charmer,  whose  dimples  we  prize, 
Yow  the  maid  who  has  none  sir, 

Here’s  to  the  girl  with  a pair  of  blue  eyes, 

And  here’s  to  the  nymph  with  but  one,  sir : 
Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

Here’s  to  the  maid  with  a bosom  of  snow, 

And  to  her  that’s  as  brown  as  a berry  ; 

Here’s  to  the  wife,  with  a face  full  of  woe, 

And  now  to  the  girl  that  is  merry : 

Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

For  let’em  be  clumsy,  or  let’em  be  slim, 

Young,  or  ancient,  I care  not  a feather  ; 

So  fill  the  pint  bumper,*  quite  up  to  the  brim, 
And  let  e’en  us  toast  them  together : 

Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 


* Those  were  the  days  of  hard  drinking  (let  us  be  thankful  they  are  passed  away),  when 
they  not  only  filled  a “pint  bumper,”  but  swallowed  it  at  a draught,  if  they  meant  to  be 
thought  “ pretty  fellows.”  I remember  hearing  of  a witty  reply  which  was  made  (as  it 

was  reported)  by  Sir  H s L e,  an  Irish  bon  vivant  of  the  last  century,  to  his  doctor, 

who  had  cut  him  down  to  a pint  of  wine  daily,  when  he  was  on  the  sick  list.  Now  the 
convivial  baronet  was  what  was  called,  in  those  days,  a “ six  bottle  man,”— and,  we  may 
suppose,  felt  very  miserable  on  a pint  of  wine  per  diem.  The  doctor  called  the  day  after  he 
had  issued  his  merciless  decree,  and  hoped  his  patient  was  better.  “ I hope  you  only  took 
a pint  of  wine  yesterday,”  said  he.  The  baronet  nodded  a melancholy  assent.  “ Now, 
don’t  think  so  badly  of  this  injunction  of  mine,  my  dear  friend,”  continued  the  doctor, 
“you  may  rely  upon  it,  it  will  lengthen  your  days.”  “That  I believe,”  returned  Sir 
Hercules,  “for  yesterday  seemed  to  me  the  longest  day  I ever  spent  in  my  life.” 


THE  GROVES  OF  BLARNEY. 

R.  A.  Milliken.  Born,  1767 ; Died,  1815. 

R.  A.  Milliken  was  bom  in  tbe  county  of  Cork.  The  late  Thomas  Cro/ton  Croker  supposes 
the  following  song,  which  attained  such  wide-spread  popularity,  to  have  been  written  about 
1798  or  1799,  and  this  version  of  it  is  after  that  given  in  Mr.  Croker’s  volume,  wherein  he 
states  that  he  prints  from  a MS.  of  the  author.  It  is  written  in  imitation,  or  rather 
ridicule,  of  the  rambling  rhapsodies  so  frequently  heard  amongst  the  Irish  peasantry,  who 
were  much  given,  of  old,  to  the  fustian  flights  of  hedge  schoolmasters,  who  delighted  in 
dealing  with  gods  and  goddesses  and  high  historic  personages,  and  revelled  in  the 
‘Cambyses  vein.”  “ Dick,”  as  Milliken  was  familiarly  called  by  his  friends  in  Cork,  was  a 
most  convivial  sou',  and  kept  late  hours.  On  one  occasion,  as  a sedate  citizen  of  Cork 
called  upon  him  one  morning  about  some  business,  Dick  was  still  in  bed.  He  hurried  on 
his  clothes  and  came  forth.  “ Ah,  Dick,”  said  his  Quaker  visitor,  “ thou  wilt  never  be 
rich  if  thou  dost  not  get  up  earlier ; it  is  ‘the  early  bird  that  gets  the  worm.’”  Dick,  who 
did  not  like  to  be  schooled,  replied,  ‘‘The  d — 1 mend  the  worm  for  being  up  so  early.” 

The  groves  of  Blarney 
They  look  so  charming, 

Down  by  the  purling 
Of  sweet  silent  streams ; 


80 


CONVIVIAL  AXD  COMIC  SOXGS. 


Being  banked  with  posies 
That  spontaneous  grow  there, 

Planted  in  order 

By  the  sweet  rock  close. 

’Tis  there’s  the  daisy 
And  the  sweet  carnation, 

The  blooming  pink, 

And  the  rose  so  fair ; 

The  daffodowndilly — 

Likewise  the  lily, 

All  flowers  that  scent 
The  sweet  fragrant  air. 

’Tis  Lady  Jeffers* 

That  owns  this  station  ; 

Like  Alexander, 

Or  Queen  Helen  fair  ; 

There’s  no  commander 
. In  all  the  nation, 

For  emulation, 

Can  with  her  compare. 

Such  walls  surround  her, 

That  no  nine-pounder 
Could  dare  to  plunder 
Her  place  of  strength  ; . 

But  Oliver  Cromwell,! 

Her  he  did  pommell, 

And  made  a breach 
In  her  battlement. 

There’s  gravel  walks  there, 

For  speculation, 

And  conversation 
In  sweet  solitude. 

’Tis  there  the  lover 
May  hear  the  dove,  or 
The  gentle  plover 
In  the  afternoon ; 

And  if  a lady 
Would  be  so  engaging 
As  to  walk  alone  in 
Those  shady  bowers, 

* The  address  with  which  much  local  and  historic  truth  are  smothered  in  burlesque  is  not 
the  least  of  the  specialities  of  this  singular  rhapsody.  Blarney  was  forfeited  in  1689  by 
Lord  Clancarty,  and  really  did  pass  into  the  hands  of  the  Jeffery  family. 

t That  Blarney  Castle  was  battered  is  true ; but  not  by  Cromwell,  though  Cromwell,  as 
the  grand  buggaboo  of  the  Irish  songster,  is  most  properly  made  the  assailant  of  the  ill-used 
Lady  Jeffers.  Lord  Broghill  in  reality  took  the  castle  in  1646,  and  a published  letl  er  of  his 
exists,  dated  “ Blairney" 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS, 


81 


’Tis  there  the  courtier 
He  may  transport  her 
Into  some  fort,  or 
All  under  ground. 

For  ’tis  there’s  a cave  where 
No  daylight  enters, 

But  cats  and  badgers 
Are  for  ever  bred ; 

Being  mossed  by  nature, 

That  makes  it  sweeter 
Than  a coach-and  six, 

Or  a feather  bed. 

’Tis  there  the  lake  is, 

Well  stored  with  perches, 

And  comely  eels  in 
The  verdant  mud ; 

Besides  the  leeches, 

And  groves  of  beeches, 

Standing  in  order 

For  to  guard  the  flood. 

There  ’s  statues  gracing 
This  noble  place  in — 

All  heathen  gods 

And  nymphs  so  fair  : 

Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch, 

And  Nieodemus, 

All  standing  naked 
In  the  open  air ! 

So  now  to  flnish 
This  brave  narration, 

Which  my  poor  geni 
Could  not  entwine  ; 

But  were  I Homer, 

Or  Nebuchadnezzar, 

’Tis  in  every  feature 
I would  make  it  shine. 

In  the  “ Reliques  of  Father  Prout,” — that  most  diverting  divine — an  additional  verse 
to  this  song  is  given,  which  no  editor  could  omit  without  deserving  to  be  hung  up  to  dry  on 
his  own  lines.  Besides,  a chief  feature  of  “The  Groves” — the  “ Blarney  Stone,”— which 
it  is  strange  Milliken  left  unsung,  is  eulogized,  with  a force  of  illustration  that  must 
strike  every  M.P.,  and  to  which  no  lover  could  be  insensible. 

There  is  a stone  there. 

That  whoever  kisses, 

Oh ! he  never  misses 
To  grow  eloquent  3 


82 


CO^YIYIAL  AXD  COMIC  S0NC3. 


’Tis  he  may  clamber. 

To  a lady’s  chamber. 

Or  become  a member 
Of  parliament : 

t A clever  spouter 

He’ll  soon  turn  out,  or 
An  out-and-outer, 

“ To  be  let  alone.” 

Don’t  hope  to  binder  him, 

Or  to  bewilder  him, 

Sure  he’s  a pilgrim 
From  the  Blarney  stone  !* 

* An  English  friend  of  mine  was  much  amused  by  an  answer  he  received  from  a peasant 
at  Blarney,  when  he  enquired  what  was  the  particular  virtue  of  the  Blarney  Stone.  “ Sure, 
it  taiches  you  policy,”  says  Pat.  “ What  do  you  mean  by  policy  ?”  asked  my  friend.  “ Why, 
saying  one  thing,  an  l mayning  another,”  This  definition  of  policy  I offer  as  a tribute  to 
the  shade  of  Talleyrand,  and  make  a present  of  to  diplomatists  in  general. 


TIIE  TOWN  OF  PASSAGE. 

“ Fatheb  Peout.”  Air,  “ Groves  of  Blarney.” 

So  great  was  the  popularity  of  the  " Groves  of  Blarney”  (the  foregoing),  that  several 
songs  have  since  appeared,  written  after  the  same  fashion,  of  different  degrees  of  merit, 
indicating  what  a “ floating  capital”  of  ability  must  exist  in  a country  when  such  things 
appear  anonymously,  “hit  off”  for  an  occasion,  or  to  enliven  the  social  circle,  or  merely 
as  a safety-valve  to  the  boiling  mirth  of  the  Irish  temperament.  Hamlet  prays  that  he 
may  not  “burst  in  ignorance ,” — these  merry  Irish  dogs  would  certainly  burst  in  silence. 
But  amongst  all  such  songs  the  following  stands  supreme. 

The  town  of  Passage  f 
Is  both  large  and  spacious, 

And  situated 
Upon  the  say ; 

’Tis  nate  and  dacent, 

And  quite  adjacent, 

To  come  from  Cork 
On  a summer’s  day. 

There  you  may  slip  in, 

To  take  a dippin’ 

Forenent  the  shippin’ 

That  at  anchor  ride ; 

Or  in  a wherry 
Cross  o’er  the  ferry 
To  Carrigaloe 

On  the  other  side. 

f Novf  called  Queeqsto\yn,  in  commemoration  of  her  Majesty’s  visit  to  the  noble  harbour 
of  Cork. 


CONVIVIAL  AXD  COMIC  SOXGS. 


83 


Mud  cabins  swarm  in 
This  place  so  charmin’ 

With  sailors’  garments 
Hung  out  to  dry ; 

And  each  abode  is 
Snug  and  commodious, 

With  pigs  melodious, 

In  their  straw-built  sty, 

’Tis  there  the  turf  is, 

And  lots  of  murphies* 

Head  sprats  and  herrings, 

And  oyster -shells ; 

Nor  any  lack,  oh  ! 

Of  good  tobacco, 

Though  what  is  smuggled 
By  far  excels. 

There  are  ships  from  Cadiz, 
And  from  Barbadoes, 

But  the  leading  trade  is 
In  whiskey-punch ; 

And  you  may  go  in 
Where  one  Molly  Bowen 
Keeps  a nate  hotel 
For  a quiet  lunch. 

But  land  or  deck  on, 

You  may  safely  reckon, 
Whatsoever  country 
You  come  hither  from, 

On  an  invitation 
To  a jollification 
With  a parish  priest, 

That’s  called  “Father  Tom.” 

Of  ships  there’s  one  fixt 
For  lodging  convicts 
A floating  “stone  jug” 

Of  amazing  bulk  ; 

The  hake  and  salmon, 

Playing  at  bagammon, 

Swim  for  divarsion 
All  round  this  hulk  ; 

There  “ Saxon”  jailors 
Keep  brave  repailers, 

Who  soon  with  sailors 
Must  anchor  weigh 


* Potatoes. 


84 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


From  tli’  em’rald  island, 

Ne’er  to  see  dry  land 
Until  they  spy  land 
In  sweet  Bot’ny  Bay.* 

♦ To  the  present  generation  it  may  not  be  unnecessary  to  state,  that  Botany  Bay  is  the 
old  name  for  the  place  of  “transportation  beyond  the  seas.”  “Australia”  is  a name 
coined  since  the  early  days  of  repeal.  In  Cook’s  Voyages  of  Discovery  it  is  stated,  that 
the  name  Botany  Bay  was  given  to  the  place  in  consequence  of  the  number  of  strange 
plants  and  flowers  found  there  by  Dr.  Solander,  (if  I remember -rightly).  To  give  an 
instance  of  the  playful  spirit  in  which  the  Irish  treat  the  most  serious  matters  I am  tempted 
to  trespass  on  the  space  usually  allowed  to  a note;  but  redundancy  is  better  than  baldness. 
A gentleman  issuing  from  the  court  where  the  Judge  was  delivering  a somewhat  lengthy 
address  to  some  prisoners  he  was  sentencing  to  transportation,  was  accosted  by  a friend, 

who  asked  what  was  going  on  inside— “ Oh,”  says  he,  “ Lord became  so  scientific 

that  I got  tired  and  came  away.”  “How,  scientific?”  said  the  other.  “Oh,”  answered 
he,  “ he  is  delivering  a lecture  on  Botany .”  I remember,  too,  when  a new  pile  of  building 
was  added  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  for  additional  chambers  for  the  students,  that  they, 
in  consequence  of  its  being  in  a somewhat  out-of-the-way  place,  called  it  “ Botany  Bay.” 
Oh ! merry  Ireland ! Fun  presides  in  all  your  temples — those  of  the  Muses  and  Justice 
included. 


TIIE  BLARNEY. 

S.  C.  Hall. 

In  a dramatic  piece  entitled  “ The  Groves  of  Blarney,”  written  for  the  lamented  Tyrone 
Power  (that  admirable  actor)  by  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  the  following  song  was  sung.  It  was 
written  by  her  husband,  the  descendant  of  an  English  gentleman,  who,  having  visited 
Ireland,  settled  there,  won  by  the  attractions  of  the  country  (like  many  a one  before  and 
since),  and  that  attachment  to  Ireland  has  increased  in  the  son— and  with  good  reason — 
for  he  won  to  wife  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  Ireland’s  daughters,  whose  touching  tales 
of  her  country,  and  sunny  and  shadowy  sketches  of  its  peasantry,  have  made  her  name 
celebrated  and  admired  abroad,  and  beloved  at  home. 

Oh,  when  a young  bachelor  woos  a young  maid 
Who’s  eager  to  go  and  yet  willing  to  stay, 

She  sighs  and  she  blushes,  and  looks  half  afraid, 

Yet  loses  no  word  that  her  lover  can  say, 

Whatjs  it  she  hears  but  the  blarney? 

Oh,  a perilous  thing  is  this  blarney ! 

To  all  that  he  tells  her  she  gives  no  reply, 

Or  murmurs  and  whispers  so  gentle  and  low  ; 

And  though  he  has  asked  her  when  nobody’s  by, 

She  dare  not  say  “ yes,”  and  she  cannot  say  “no.” 

She  knows  what  she  hears  is  the  blarney, 

Oh,  a perilous  thing  is  the  blarney  ! 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


85 


But  people  get  used  to  a perilous  thing, 

And  fancy  the  sweet  words  of  lovers  are  true  ; 
So,  let  all  their  blarney  be  passed  through  a ring, 
The  charm  will  prevent  all  the  ill  it  can  do, 
And  maids  have  no  fear  of  the  blarne}^, 
Nor  the  peril  that  lies  in  the  blarney  I 


Truly  the  gift  of  language,  to  which  tradition  holds  the  “Blarney  Stone”  entitled, 
seems  not  to  he  given  for  nothing,  if  we  may  judge  from  all  the  words  that  have  been 
spent  upon  it.  Here  is  another  lyric  in  celebration  of  its  powers.  To  those  conversant 
with  Irish  songs  it  will  be  seen  that  it  is  almost  a parody  on  that  old  favourite,  written  by 
Lady  Morgan,  commencing — 


“Oh,  did  you  ne’er  hear  of  Kate  Kearney, 

Who  lived  on  the  banks  of  Killarney  ? ” 

Oh,  did  you  ne’er  hear  of  the  Blarney, 

That’s  found  near  the  banks  of  Killarney? 

Believe  it  from  me, 

No  girl’s  heart  is  free, 

Once  she  hears  the  sweet  sound  of  the  Blarney. 

For  the  Blarney’s  so  great  a desaiver, 

That  ' 1,1  ' ’ e there — tho’  you  leave  her, 


All  the  thricks  you’re  about, 

Till  she’s  quite  gone  herself,  with  your  Blarney. 

Oh,  say,  would  you  find  this  same  Blarney, 
There’s  a castle,  not  far  from  Killarney, 

On  the  top  of  the  wall — - 
But  take  care  you  don’t  fall, 

There’s  a stone  that  contains  all  this  Blarney. 

Like  a magnet,  it’s  influence  such  is, 

That  attraction  it  gives  all  it  touches, 

If  you  kiss  it,  they  say, 

That  from  that  blessed  day, 

You  may  kiss  whom  you  plaze,  with  your  Blarney. 


Blarney  Castle  has  been  a fertile  theme  for  poets  of  all  degrees.  I have  seen  a queer 
anonymous  song  lamenting  its  destruction  by  Oliver  Cromwell,  on  whom  the  national  poets 
always  pour  out  their  vials  of  wrath;  and,  indeed,  no  wonder,  notwithstanding  all  Lord 


THE  BLARNEY. 


Samuel  Lover.  Air,  “ Kate  Kearney.” 


86 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


Macaulay  says  in  praise  of  his  rule  in  Ireland.  The  song'  is  too  long  for,  and  not  worth 
quotation  at  length,  but  I will  give  as  much  of  it  as  I think  may  be  amusing  and  not 
inappropriate  here.  The  bard  opens  with  a burst  of  lament — 

“ O ! Blarney  Castle,  my  darling,  you’re  nothin  at  all  but  could  stone ! 

With  a wee  little  taste  of  ivy  that  up  your  side  has  grown. 

Och ! it’s  you  that  was  once  strong  and  ancient,  and  you  kept  the  Sassenaehs  down ! 
And  you  sheltered  the  Lord  of  Clancarly  who  then  lived  in  Dublin  town.” 

He  then  describes  “ that  robber,  Ould  Cromwell!”  loading  a battering-ram  with  gun- 
powder and  attacking  the  Castle.  Cromwell  and  Ireton  indulging  in  an  extraordinary 
sort  of  luncheon,  or  pic  nic,  at  the  same  time,  if  we  may  believe  the  bard — 

“ It  was  now  the  poor  boys  of  the  Castle  looked  over  the- battlement  wall, 

And  there  they  saw  that  ruffian,  Ould  Cromwell,  a feeding  on  powder  and  ball , 

And  the  fellow  that  married  his  daughter,  a chawing  grape-shot  in  his  jaw; 

’Twas  bowld  I-rat-ton  they  called  him,  and  he  was  his  brother-in-law.” 


Further  space  must  not  be  trespassed  upon  herein  quotation  from  this  wonderful  ballad, 
but  if  Loid  Macaulay  should  happen,  in  the  course  of  his  researches,  to  alight  upon  it,  I 
hope  he  will  use  it  more  tenderly  than  he  does  CLARENDON. 


WOULD  YOU  CHOOSE  A FEIEKD  P 

Griffin. 

Would  you  choose  a friend  ? Attend ! attend  ! 
I ’ll  teach  you  how  to  attain  your  end. 

He  on  whose  lean  and  bloodless  cheek 
The  red  grape  leaves  no  laughing  streak, 

On  whose  dull  white  brow  and  clouded  eye 
Cold  thought  and  care  sit  heavily, 

Him  you  must  flee: — 

’Tween  you  and  me, 

That  man  is  very  had  company. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


87 


And  he  around  whose  jewelled  nose 
The  blood  of  the  red  grape  freely  flows  ; 

Whose  pursy  frame  as  he  fronts  the  board 
Shakes  like  a wine-sack  newly  stored, 

In  whose  half-shut,  moist,  and  sparkling  eye, 

The  wine-god  revels  cloudily, 

Him  you  must  flee : — 

’Tween  you  and  me, 

That  man  is  very  bad  company. 

But  he  who  takes  his  -wine  in  measure, 

Mingling  wit  and  sense  with  pleasure. 

Who  likes  good  wine  for  the  joy  it  brings, 

And  merrily  laughs  and  gaily  sings, 

W ith  heart  and  bumper  always  full, 

Never  maudlin,  never  dull, 

Your  friend  let  him  be: — 

’Tween  you  and  me, 

That  man  is  excellent  company. 

This  song,  though  of  a bacchanalian  character,  has  all  the  merit  of  Griffin’s  refined 
nature  within  it.  He  takes  his  wine — as  he  did  everything  else— like  a gentleman. 


PUItTY  MOLLY  BEALLAGHAN. 

This  very  clever  song  was  written  by  an  Irish  lady,  but  as  she  permitted  her  merry  muse 
to  rove  “fancy  free”  into  a phraseology  rather  outside  the  pale  permitted  to  the  gentler 
sex,  she  would  never  allow  her  name  to  be  divulged  to  the  public,  and  the  few  who  were  in 
her  secret  were  faithful  to  her  desire  for  incognito.  Added  to  the  thoroughly  Irish  cha- 
racter of  the  verses,  the  song  has  an  exquisite  Irish  melody  as  its  vehicle  of  being 
imparted,  and  this  has  increased  the  popularity  to  which  it  is  so  well  entitled  on  its  own 
account. 

Ah  tben,  Mam  dear,  did  you  never  bear  of  purty  Molly  Brallaghan  ? 
Troth,  dear,  I’ve  lost  her,  and  I’ll  never  be  a man  again, 

Not  a spot  on  my  hide  will  another  summer  tan  again, 

Since  Molly  she  has  left  me  all  alone  for  to  die. 

The  place  where  my  heart  was,  you  might  easy  rowl  a turnip  in, 

It’s  the  size  of  all  Dublin,  and  from  Dublin  to  the  Devil’s  glin,* 

If  she  chose  to  take  another,  sure  she  might  have  sent  mine  back  agin, 
And  not  to  leave  me  here  all  alone  for  to  die. 

* The  Devil’s  Glen  is  a romantic  valley  in  the  county  of  Wicklow,  where  wood  and  water 
make  one  of  those  wildernesses  of  beauty  for  which  that  picturesque  county  is  famous.  It 
is  about  thirty  miles  from  Dublin ; so  this  line  of  the  song  gives  a tolerably  good  notion 
of  the  size  of  an  Irishman’s  heart. 


88 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


Mam,  dear,  I remember  when  tlie  milking  time  was  past  and  gone, 

W e went  into  the  meadows  where  she  swore  I was  the  only  man 
That  ever  she  could  love — yet  oh,  the  base,  the  cruel  one, 

After  all  that  to  leave  me  here  alone  for  to  die  ! 

Mam,  dear,  I remember  as  we  came  home  the  rain  began, 

I rowl’d  her  in  my  frize  coat,  tho’  the  divil  a waistcoat  I had  on, 

And  my  shirt  was  rather  line-drawn ; yet  oh,  the  base  and  cruel  one, 
After  all  that  she’s  left  me  here  alone  for  to  die. 

I went  and  towld  my  tale  to  Father  M ‘Donnell,  Mam, 

And  thin  I went  and  ax’d  advice  of  Counsellor  O’Connell,  Mam, 

He  towld  me  promise-breaches  had  been  ever  since  the  world  began. 
Now,  I have  only  one  pair,  Mam,  and  they  are  corduroy! 

Arrah,  what  could  he  mean,  Mam  ? or  what  would  you  advise  me  to  ? 
Must  my  corduroys  to  Molly  go  ? in  troth,  I’m  bother’d  what  to  do. 

I can’t  afford  to  lose  both  my  heart  and  my  breeches  too, 

Yet  what  need  I care,  when  I’ve  only  to  die ! 

Oh  ! the  left  side  of  my  carcass  is  as  weak  as  water  gruel,  Mam — 
The  divil  a bit  upon  my  bones,  since  Molly’s  proved  so  cruel,  Mam, 

I wish  I had  a carabine,  I’d  go  and  fight  a duel,  Mam, 

Sure,  it’s  better  far  to  kill  myself  than  stay  here  to  die. 

I’m  hot  and  detarmined  as  a live  Salamander,  Mam ! 

Won’t  you  come  to  my  wake,  when  I go  my  long  meander,  Mam?* 
Oh  ! I’ll  feel  myself  as  valiant  as  the  famous  Alexander,  Mam, 

When  I hear  yiz  crying  round  me  “Arrah,  why  did  you  die  ?” 

* The  “long  meander”  means  a funeral;  and  a very  expressive  term  it  is  to  any  one  who 
ever  saw  the  thing  in  the  west  or  south  of  Ireland,— a long  straggling  line  of  people 
winding  along  a road,  and  uttering  the  wild  wail  for  the  departed,  as  described  in  the  final 
line.  This  wail  is  called  ulican  in  Ireland,  pronounced  uli cawn,  often  falsely  written 
and  pronounced  “hullagone.” 


A BUMPER  OF  GOOD  LIQUOR. 

Sheridan.  From  the  “ Duenna.” 

A dumped  of  good  liquor 
Will  end  a contest  quicker 
Than  justice,  judge,  or  vicar; 

So  fill  a cheerful  glass, 

And  let  good  humour  pass : 

But  if  more  deep  the  quarrel, 

Why,  sooner  drain  the  barrel 
Than  be  the  hateful  fellow 
That’s  crabbed  when  lie’s  mellow. 

A bumper,  &e. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


89 


THADY  O’ BIIADY. 

Ye  lasses  and  bucks,  leave  off  your  sly  looks, 

While  I sing  of  one  Thady  O’ Brady, 

Who  courted  Miss  Beilly  so  snug  and  so  slyly, 

Determined  to  make  her  his  lady. 

But  before  he’d  begin  to  commit  that  great  sin 
Which  the  clargy  they  call  matrimony, 

His  furniture  all  he  would  tell  at  one  call 
That  he’d  give  to  his  own  darling  honey. 

First  a nate  feather  bed,  and  a four-posted  stead, 

A bolster,  quilt,  blankets  and  sheets  too, 

A straw  curtain,  one  side  to  the  rafters  well  tied, 

And  a purty  dale  board  at  our  feet  too ; 

In  one  corner  some  meal,  in  another  a pail 
Of  sweet  milk,  and  roll’d  butter  hard  by  it, 

Some  salt  in  a barrel,  and  for  fear  we  should  quarrel, 

Some  whisky  to  keep  us  both  quiet. 

Four  knives  and  four  forks,  four  bottles  and  corks, 

Six  plates,  spoons,  and  two  pewter  dishes, 

Salt  butter  a store,  and  salt  herrings  galore  * 

With  good  praties  as  much  as  she  wishes ; 

Two  pots  and  a griddle,  a sieve  and  a riddle, 

A slate  for  a tongs  to  bring  lire  on, 

A pair  of  pot  hooks,  and  two  little  crooks 
To  hang  up  the  salt  box  and  gridiron. 

Three  noggins,  three  mugs,  a bowl  and  two  jugs, 

A crock  and  a pan  something  lesser, 

A nate  looking  glass,  to  dress  at  for  mass, 

Nailed  up  to  a clean  little  dresser ; 

Some  starch  and  some  blue,  in  two  papers  for  you, 

An  iron  and  holder  to  hold  it, 

A beetlej*  to  whack,  and  a stick  horse’s  back 
To  dry  your  cap  on  ’fore  you  fold  it. 

Some  onions  and  eggs  in  two  little  kegs, 

A kish  wherein  plenty  of  turf  is, 

A spade  and  grifaun,  to  dig  up  the  lawn, 

And  some  manure  to  cover  the  murphies ; 

* Plenty. 

t A heavy  wooden  mall,  used  in  Ireland  for  beating  clothes  in  the  process  of  washing. — 
The  word  is  found  in  Shakspeare : — 

“ If  I do,  fillip  me  with  a three-man  beetle.” 

Many  old  English  words  survive  in  Ireland  the  term  of  their  vitality  in  England. — This 
fact  might  open  an  interesting  course  of  enquiry  to  the  philologist. 


90 


CONVIVIAL  ANT)  COMIC  SONGS, 


A dog  and  two  cats  to  run  after  the  rats, 

A cock  for  a clock,  to  give  warning, 

A plough  and  a sow,  and  a nate  Kerry  cow, 

To  give  milk  for  your  tea  in  the  morning, 

A churn  and  a dash,  to  make  the  cream  splash, 

Some  boiling  hot  water  to  fill  it, 

Two  saucepans  with  handles,  and  to  make  the  rush  candles 
Some  grease  in  a small  metal  skillet ; 

For  a lump  of  fat  bacon  you’ll  not  be  short  taken, 

With  some  cabbage  to  put  where  the  meat  is, 

A pair  of  new  brogues,  and  two  osier  skillogues* 

To  draw  water  from  off  the  boiled  praties. 

Some  flax  and  a wheel,  some  wool  and  a reel, 

And  a besom  to  keep  the  house  snug, 

A few  bundles  of  frieze  to  cover  my  thighs, 

And  for  you,  a neat  piece  of  brown  rug ; 

But  then  for  young  Thady  we  must  have  clothes  ready, 

With  pineady  to  keep  him  a feeding, 

A cradle  see- saw  and  a red  lobster’s  claw, 

To  give  to  the  brat  when  he’s  teething. 

Some  soap  to  wash  all,  shirts,  stockings,  and  caul, 

A table,  three  stools  and  a forum, 

All  this  I will  give,  and  I think  we  may  live, 

As  well  as  the  justice  of  quorum. 

But  Biddy,  astore,  should  you  want  any  more, 

Boar  out  without  any  more  bother, 

For  an  Irishman’s  pride  ’tis,  whatever  betide, 

To  keep  his  poor  wife  in  good  order. 

* A shallow  oval-shaped  basket,  the  use  of  which  the  following  line  in  the  s;ngindi* 
cates.  A sort  of  rustic  colander. 


• <> 

WIIY,  LiaUOB  OF  LIFE! 

Caeolan.  Translated  by  John  Dalton,  M.  It.  I.  A, 

This  Ode  to  Whiskey,  in  its  way,  is  amongst  the  finest  things  ever  written.  How  elo- 
quent—how  inventive— how  graphic  and  suggestive  in  illustration !— and  let  me  add,  in 
deserved  tribute  to  my  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  Dalton— how  admirably  translated ! 

The  Bard  addresses  Whiskey  ; — 

W hy,  liquor  of  life  ! do  I love  you  so ; 

When  in  all  our  encounters  you  lay  me  low  ? 

More  stupid  and  senseless  I every  day  grow, 

What  a hint — if  I’d  mend  by  the  warning  I 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


91 


Tatter’d  and  tom  you’ve  left  my  coat, 

I’ve  not  a cravat — to  save  my  throat, 

Yet  I pardon  you  all,  my  sparkling  doat ! 

If  you’d  cheer  me  again  in  the  morning. 

Whiskey  replies : — 

When  you’ve  heard  prayers  on  Sunday  next, 

With  a sermon  beside,  or  at  least — the  text, 

Come  down  to  the  alehouse — however  you’re  vexed, 

And  though  thousands  of  cares  assault  you  : 

You’ll  find  tippling  there — till  morals  mend, 

A cock  shall  be  placed  in  the  barrel’s  end, 

The  jar  shall  be  near  you,  and  I’ll  be  your  friend, 

And  give  you  a “ Kead  mille  faults.  ”* 

The  Sard  resumes  his  address  : — 

You’re  my  soul  and  my  treasure,  without  and  within, 

My  sister  and  cousin  and  all  my  kin ; 

’Tis  unlucky  to  wed  such  a prodigal  sin, — 

But  all  other  enjoyment  is  vain,  love  ! 

My  barley  ricks  all  turn  to  you — 

- My  tillage — my  plough — and  my  horses  too — 

My  cows  and  my  sheep  they  have — bid  me  adieu, 

I care  not  while  you  remain,  love ! 

Come,  vein  of  my  heart ! then  come  in  haste, 

You’re  like  Ambrosia,  my  liquor  and  feast, 

My  forefathers  all  had  the  very  same  taste — * 

For  the  genuine  dew  of  the  mountain. 

Oh  ! Usquebaugh  ! I love  its  kiss  ! — 

My  guardian  spirit,  I think  it  is, 

Had  my  christening  bowl  been  filled  with  this, 

I’d  have  swallowed  it — were  it  a fountain. 

Many’s  the  quarrel  and  fight  we’ve  had, 

And  many  a time  you  made  me  mad, 

But  while  I’ve  a heart — it  can  never  be  sad, 

When  you  smile  at  me  full  on  the  table ; 

Surely  you  are  my  wife  and  brother 
My  only  child — my  father  and  mother — 

My  outside  coat — I have  no  other  ! 

Oh  ! I’ll  stand  by  you — while  I am  able. 

If  family  pride  can  aught  avail, 

I’ve  the  sprightliest  kin  of  all  the  Gaelf — 

Brandy  and  Usquebaugh,  and  ale  ! 

But  claret  untasted  may  pass  us  ; 

To  clash  with  the  clergy  were  sore  amiss, 

So,  for  righteousness  sake,  I leave  them  this, 

For  claret  the  gownsman’s  comfort  is, 

When  they’ve  saved  us  with  matins  and  masses. 

* Kead  mille  faulte. — A hundred  thousand  welcomes.  f Gael, —The  ancient  Irish. 


02 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS, 


THE  LAND  OF  POTATOES,  0! 

Air,  “ Morgan  Rattler.” 


If  I had  on  the  clear 
But  five  hundred  a year, 

’Tis  myself  would  not  fear 

Without  adding  a farthing  to ’t ; 
Faith  if  such  was  my  lot, 

Little  Ireland’s  the  spot 
Where  I’d  build  a snug  cot, 

With  a bit  of  garden  to  ’t. 

As  for  Italy’s  dales, 

With  their  Alps  and  high  vales, 

Where  with  fine  squalling  gales, 

Their  signoras  so  treat  us,  0 I 
I’d  ne’er  to  them  come, 

Nor  abroad  ever  roam, 

But  enjoy  a sweet  home 

In  the  land  of  potatoes,  0 ! 
Hospitality, 

All  reality, 

No  formality, 

There  you  ever  see ; 

But  free  and  easy 
’Twould  so  amaze  ye, 

You’d  think  us  all  crazy, 

F or  dull  we  never  be  1 


If  my  friend  honest  Jack, 

Would  hut  take  a small  hack, 

And  just  get  on  his  hack, 

And  with  joy  gallop  full  to  us ; 

He,  throughout  the  whole  year, 

Then  should  have  the  best  cheer, 

For  faith  none  so  dear 

As  our  brother  John  Bull  to  us! 
And  we’d  teach  him,  when  there, 

Both  to  blunder  and  swear, 

And  our  brogue  with  him  share, 

Which  both  genteel  and  neat  is,  0 1 
And  we’d  make  him  so  drink, 

By  St.  Patrick,  I think, 

That  he  never  would  shrink 

From  the  land  of  potatoes,  0 ! 

Hospitality,  <xc. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS, 


93 


Though  I freely  agree 
I should  more  happy  be 
If  some  lovely  she 

From  Old  England  would  favour  me  : 
For  no  spot  on  earth 
Can  more  merit  bring  forth, 

If  with  beauty  and  worth 

You  embellish’d  would  have  her  bo : 
Good  breeding,  good  nature, 

You  find  in  each  feature, 

That  nought  you’ve  to  teach  her — 

So  sweet  and  complete  she’s,  01 
Then  if  Fate  would  but  send 
Unto  me  such  a friend, 

What  a life  would  I spend 

In  the  land  of  potatoes,  0 1 
Hospitality,  &c. 


POTTEEN,  GOOD  LUCK  TO  YE,  DEAR. 

Charles  Lever. 

Av  I was  a monarch  in  state, 

Like  Romulus  or  Julius  Caysar, 

With  the  best  of  fine  victuals  to  eat, 

And  drink  like  great  Nebuchadnezzar, 

A rasher  of  bacon  I’d  have, 

And  potatoes  the  finest  was  seen,  sir ; 

And  for  drink,  it’s  no  claret  I’d  crave, 

But  a keg  of  old  Mullen’s  potteen,  sir. 

With  the  smell  of  the  smoke  on  it  still. 

They  talk  of  the  Romans  of  ould, 

Whom  they  say  in  their  own  times  was  frisky ; 

But  trust  me  to  keep  out  the  cowld, 

The  Romans  * at  home  here  like  whisky. 

Sure  it  warms  both  the  head  and  the  heart, 

It’s  the  soul  of  all  readin’  and  writin’  ; 

It  teaches  both  science  and  art, 

And  disposes  for  love  or  for  fightin’. 

Oh,  potteen,  good  luck  to  ye,  dear. 

* An  abbreviation  of  Roman  Catholic.  The  Irish  peasant  uses  the  word  “Roman”  in 
contradistinction  to  that  of  “Protestant.”  An  Hibernian,  in  a religious  wrangle  with 
a Scotchman,  said,  “Ah,  don’t  bother  me  any  more,  man  ! I’ll  prove  to  ye  mine  is  the  raal 
ould  religion  by  one  word.  St.  Paul  wrote  an  epistle  to  The  Romans  .—but  he  never  wrote 
one  to  The  Protestants.  Answer  me  that  l" 


94 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


MOLLY  CAREW. 

From  “Songs  and  Ballads,”  by  Samuel  Lover. 

This  song  was  suggested  by  one  of  Cardan’s  finest  bursts  of  melody,  entitled  “ Planxty 
Reilly,”  and  its  capricious  measure  may  be  guessed  at  by  the  unusual  lengths  and  variety 
of  the  following  metres.  The  intensely  Irish  character  of  the  air  stimulated  me  to 
endeavour  that  the  words  should  partake  of  that  quality,  and  the  rapid  replication  of  the 
musical  phrases  made  me  strive  after  as  rapid  a ringling  of  rhyme,  of  which  our  early  bards 
were  so  fond. 

Ochone  ! and  what  will  I do  ? 

Sure,  my  love  is  all  crost 
Like  a bud  in  tlie  frost — 

And  there’s  no  use  at  all  in  my  going  to  bed, 

For  ’tis  dhrames,  and  not  sleep,  that  comes  into  my  head ; 

And  ’tis  all  about  you, 

My  sweet  Molly  Carew ! 

And  indeed  ’tis  a sin  and  a shame  ! 

You’re  complater  than  nature 
In  every  feature, 

The  snow  can’t  compare 
With  your  forehead  so  fair; 

And  I rather  would  see  just  one  blink  of  your  eye 
Than  the  purtiest  star  that  shines  out  of  the  sky ; 

And  by  this  and  by  that, 

For  the  matter  of  that, 

You’re  more  distant  by  far  than  that  same. 

Oclione  ! weirasthru  ! * 

Ochone  ! I’m  alone  ! 

I’m  alone  in  the  world  without  you. 

Ochone ! but  why  should  I spake 
Of  your  forehead  and  eyes, 

When  your  nose  it  defies 

Paddy  Blake,  the  schoolmasther,  to  put  it  in  rhyme  ; f 
Tho’  there’s  one  Burke,  he  says,  that  would  call  it  sMw&lime  I 
And  then  for  your  cheek, 

Troth,  ’twould  take  him  a week 
Its  beauties  to  tell,  as  he’d  rather  : 

Then  your  lips ! oh,  Machree  ! 

In  their  beautiful  glow 
They  a patthern  might  be 
For  the  cherries  to  grow  ; 

’Twas  an  apple  that  tempted  our  mother,  we  know,| 

For  apples  were  scarce,  I suppose,  long  ago ; 

* Oh ! Mary,  have  pity  ! (implying  the  blessed  yirgin.) 

t In  allusion  to  the  tendency  of  the  “ hedge  v schoolmaster  to  turn  sonnetteer. 

% I forget  the  name  of  the  French  author  who  said  if  lace  had  been  in  fashion  in 
the  time  of  Eve,  it  is  with  that  he  would  have  tempted  her. — Lace  is  a net,  certainly,  and 
we  are  given  to  understand  that  his  Sable  Majesty  has  nets  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  according 
to  the  nature  of  the  fry  he  is  after. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


95 


But  at  this  time  o’  day, 

’Pon  my  conscience,  I’ll  say, 

Such  cherries  might  tempt  a man’s  father  ! 

Ochone ! weirasthru ! 

Ochone  ! I’m  alone ! 

I’m  alone  in  the  world  without  you. 

Ochone  ! by  the  man  in  the  moon, 

You  taze  me  all  ways 
That  a woman  can  plaze, 

For  you  dance  twice  as  high  with  that  thief,  Pat  Magee,* 

As  when  you  take  share  of  a jig,  dear,  with  me ; 

Though  the  piper  I bate, 

For  fear  the  old  chate 
Wouldn’t  play  you  your  favourite  tune. 

And  when  you’re  at  mass 
My  devotion  you  crass, 

For  ’tis  thinking  of  you 
I am,  Molly  Carew ; 

While  you  wear,  on  purpose,  a bonnet  so  deep 
That  I can’t  at  your  sweet  purty  face  get  a peep. 

Och  ! lave  off  that  bonnet, 

Or  else  I’ll  lave  on  it 
The  loss  of  my  wandherin’  sowl ! 

Ochone ! weirasthru ! 

Ochone ! like  an  owl, 

Day  is  night  dear,  to  me,  without  you. 

Ochone  ! don’t  provoke  me  to  do  it ; 

For  there’s  girls  by  the  score 
That  loves  me — and  more ; 

And  you’d  look  mighty  quare  if  some  morning  you’d  meet 
My  wedding  all  marching  in  pride  down  the  street ; 

Troth,  you’d  open  your  eyes, 

And  you’d  die  with  surprise, 

To  think  ’twasn’t  you  was  come  to  it ; 

And  faith,  Katty  Naile, 

And  her  cow,  I go  bail, 

Would  jump  if  I’d  say 
“ Katty  Yaile  name  the  day ; ” 

And  tho’  you’re  fresh  and  fair  as  a morning  in  May, 

While  she’s  short  and  dark  like  a cowld  winther’s  day, 

Yet,  if  you  don’t  repent 
Before  Easter,  when  Lent 
Is  over,  I ’ll  marry  for  spite. 

Ochone ! weirasthru ! 

And  when  I die  for  you, 

My  ghost  will  haunt  you  every  night ! f 

* The  dance,  in  Ireland,  is  a great  field  of  display,  and  source  of  jealousy  between  rivals, 
t This  is  no  uncommon  threat  in  Ireland. 


MY  FRIEND  AND  PITCHER. 

O’Keefe. 

The  wealthy  fool,  with  gold  in  store, 

Is  still  desirous  to  grow  richer ; 

Give  me  hut  health,  I’ll  ask  no  more, 

With  my  sweet  girl,  my  friend,  and  pitcher: 
My  friend  so  rare, 

My  girl  so  fair, 

With  such  what  mortal  can  be  richer? 

Possessed  of  these,  a fig  for  care, 

My  own  sweet  girl,  my  friend,  and  pitcher. 

From  morning  sun  I’d  never  grieve 
To  toil  a hedger  or  a ditcher, 

If  that,  when  I came  home  at  eve, 

I might  enjoy  my  friend  and  pitcher. 

My  friend,  &c. 

Though  fortune  ever  shuns  my  door, 

I know  not  what  can  thus  bewitch  her ; 

With  all  my  heart  I can  be  poor, 

With  my  sweet  girl,  my  friend,  and  pitcher. 
My  friend  so  rare,  &c. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


97 


ST.  PATRICK  WAS  A GENTLEMAN. 


According  to  the  late  Mr.  Crofton  Croker,  who  elaborately  annotated  this  song,  it  is  a 
mosaic  production,  the  work  of  many  hands ; three  verses  being  written  in  1814,  by  a 
couple  of  gentlemen  who  went  to  a masquerade  in  Cork  as  ballad-singers.  These  verses 
grew  into  popularity,  and  other  verses  were  added  from  time  to  time.  By  the  bye,  the 
addenda,  like  the  postscript  of  a lady’s  letter,  are  the  best  parts  of  the  work,  for,  according 
to  Mr.  Croker,  the  third  and  fourth  verses  are  those  in  which  the  “ blind-worms”  are 
made  to 

“ open  their  eyes 

To  a sense  of  their  situation,” 

and  where 

“ The  snakes  committed  suicide, 

To  save  themselves  from  slaughter.” 

Moreover,  the  sixth  verse  was  supplementary,  wherein  that  scientific  classification  is 
made  of 

“ Cabbages — and  ladies ! ” 

Ladies  and  potatoes,  however,  are  better  classified,  for,  according  to  an  old  conundrum 
“they  both  shoot  from  the  eyes’ ’ 


Oh  ! St.  Patrick  was  a gentleman, 

Who  came  of  decent  people  : 

He  bnilt  a church  in  Dublin  town, 

And  on  it  put  a steeple. 

His  father  was  a Gallagher, 

His  mother  was  a Brady, 

His  aunt  was  an  O’Shaughnessy, 

His  uncle  an  O’ Grady. 

So  success  attend  St.  Patrick’s  fist, 

For  he’s  a saint  so  clever ; 

Oh ! he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a twist. 

And  banish’d  them  for  ever ! 

The  Wicklow  hills  are  very  high, 

And  so’s  the  Hill  of  Howth,  sir  ; 

But  there’s  a hill  much  bigger  still, 

Much  higher  nor  them  both,  sir. 

’Twas  on  the  top  of  this  high  hill  * 

St.  Patrick  preached  his  sarmint, 

That  drove  the  frogs  into  the  bogs, 

And  banished  all  the  varmint. 

Oh,  success,  &c. 

* This  hill  is  reputed  to  be  “ Croagh  Phaidrig ,”  a mountain  of  bold  outline,  standing 
over  the  picturesque  bay  of  Westport,  in  the  comity  Mayo ; its  conical  top  and  general 
outline  are  not  unlike  Vesuvius. 


6 


08 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


There’s  not  a mile  in  Ireland’s  isle 
Where  dirty  varmin  musters, 

But  there  he  put  his  dear  fore-foot 
And  murdered  them  in  clusters. 

The  toads  went  pop,  the  frogs  went  hop, 

Slap  dash  into  the  water, 

And  the  snakes  committed  suicide 
To  save  themselves  from  slaughter. 

Oh,  success,  &o. 

Nine  hundred  thousand  reptiles  blue 
He  charmed  with  sweet  discourses, 

And  dined  on  them  at  Killaloe 
In  soups  and  second  courses. 

Where  blind-worms  crawling  in  the  grass 
Disgusted  all  the  nation, 

He  gave  them  a rise,  which  opened  their  eye3 
To  a sense  of  their  situation. 

Oh,  success,  &c. 

No  wonder  that  those  Irish  lads 
Should  be  so  gay  and  frisky, 

For  sure  St.  Pat  he  taught  them  that, 

As  well  as  making  whiskey  ; 

No  wonder  that  the  Saint  himself 
Should  understand  distilling, 

Since  his  mother  kept  a sheebeen  shop  * 

In  the  town  of  Enniskillen. 

Oh,  success,  &c. 

Oh ! was  I but  so  fortunate 
As  to  be  back  in  Munster, 

’Tis  I’d  be  bound,  that  from  that  ground 
I never  more  would  once  stir. 

For  there  St.  Patrick  planted  turf, 

And  plenty  of  the  praties  ; 

With  pigs  galore , ma  gra,  ma  store , f 
And  cabbages — and  ladies  ! 

Then  my  blessing  on  St.  Patrick’s  list, 

For  he’s  the  darling  Saint,  0 ! 

Oh,  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a twist — 

He’s  a beauty  without  paint,  0 ! 

* To  the  English  reader  it  is  necessary  to  explain  that  a sheebeen  is  a low  whiskey  shop. 

t In  plenty,  my  love,  my  treasure. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  the  freedom  of  the  Irish  soil  from  all  venomous  reptiles, 
which  is  vulgarly  attributed  to  St.  Patrick  (as  alluded  to  in  this  song),  is  noticed  as  early  as 
the  year  840,  by  Donat,  an  Irish  ecclesiastic,  who  ultimately  became  an  Italian  bishop. 
The  allusion  is  made  in  some  laudatory  Latin  verses,  which  have  been  thus  rendered  into 
English : — {Vide  “Specimens  of  the  early  Native  Poetry  of  Ireland,”  by  Henry  R.  Mont- 
gomery.) 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


99 


Fav  westward  lies  an  isle  of  ancient  fame. 

By  nature  bless’d,  and  Scotia*  is  her  name — 

Enroll’d  in  books— exhaustless  in  her  store 
Of  veiny  silver  and  of  golden  ore. 

Her  fruitful  soil  for  ever  teems  with  wealth ; 

With  gems  her  waters,  and  her  air  with  health ; 

Her  verdant  fields  with  milk  and  honey  flow ; 

Her  woolly  fleeces  vie  with  virgin  snow ; 

Her  waving  furrows  float  with  bearded  corn ; 

And  arms  and  arts  her  envied  sons  adorn. 

No  savage  bear  with  lawless  fury  roves; 

No  rav’ning  lion  through  her  sacred  groves; 

No  poison  there  infects — no  scaly  snake 

Creeps  though  the  grass,  nor  frogsf  annoy  the  lake 

An  island  worthy  of  its  pious  race. 

In  war  triumphant,  and  unmatched  in  peace. 

* Scotia  was  the  name  belonging  exclusively  to  Ireland  up  to  the  third  century,  in  the 
course  of  which  the  Irish  colonised  Argyleshire;  Scotland  was  previously  known  as 
Caledonia  and  Albania.  Subsequently,  to  distinguish  the  two  countries,  Scotland  was 
called  Scotia  Minor.  Spenser  alludes  to  this  in  his  “ View  of  the  State  of  Ireland,”  thus : — 
“ for  those  Scots  are  Scythians,  arrived  (as  I said)  in  the  north  parts  of  Ireland ; where  some 
of  them  after  passed  into  the  next  coast  of  Albine,  now  called  Scotland,  which,  after  much 
trouble,  they  possessed,  and  of  themselves  named  Scotland  ....  therefore  it  cometh 
thence,  that,  of  some  writers,  Ireland  is  called  Scotia  Major,  and  that  which  is  now  called 
Scotland,  Scotia  Minor.”  This  distinction  was  well  known  on  the  continent,  where  the  learned 
speak  of  the  “ Scots  of  Albany,”  and  “ Hibernian  Scots.”  Bayle,  in  an  article  on  an  Irish 
ecclesiastic  and  poet,  who  flourished  in  the  fifth  century,  named  “ Shiel”— (Latinized,  as  was 
the  custom  of  the  age,  into  “ Sedulius  ” )— enters  into  a disquisition  as  to  whether  the  poet  and 
the  ecclesiastic  were  not  distinct  persons,  and  in  that  article  he  speaks  of  “L’ inscription  d’un 
excellent  manuscrit  de  L’Jlbbaie  de  Falde,”  and  that  inscription  is,  “ Sedulii  Scoti  Hyber- 
niensis  in  omnes  JEpistolas  Pauti  collectaneum.”  The  Scotch,  of  recent  times,  are  in  general 
singularly  disinclined  to  admit  these  historic  facts,  though  their  own  men  of  mark  and 
learning  allow  them  to  be  true.  Buchanan  admits  it.  Sir  Walter  Scott  admits  the  line 
of  Scottish  kings  to  be  derived  from  Ireland.  James  I.  admitted  the  same  thing,  and  gave 
it  as  a reason  why  he  should  care  for  Ireland.  But  why,  it  may  be  asked,  is  all  this  old 
history  raked  up  for  a note  in  a collection  of  songs  ? Gentle  reader,  that  is  the  very 
reason  why  it  is  raked  up ; for  Ireland  had  bards  as  well  as  kings,  and  these  bards,  and 
their  music,  found  their  way  to  Scotland ; and  many  an  Irish  air  has  Scotland  claimed  that 
she  is  not  entitled  to.  Let  an  illustrious  Scotchman  speak  in  evidence — here  are  the  words 
of  Robert  Burns : — 

“ Your  Irish  airs  are  pretty,  but  they  are  downright  Irish.  If  they  were  like  the  Banks  of 
Banna,  for  instance,  though  really  Irish,  yet  in  the  Scottish  taste,  you  might  adopt  them. 
Since  you  are  so  fond  of  Irish  music,  what  say  you  to  twenty-five  of  them  in  an  additional 
number?  We  could  easily  find  this  quantity  of  charming  airs ; I will  take  care  that  you 
shall  not  want  songs;  and  I assure  you  you  would  find  it  the  most  saleable  of  the  whole.” — 
Burns  to  Thomson,  Sept.  1793. 

The  passages  given  in  Italics  in  this  bit  of  evidence  show,  not  only  that  the  airs  were  Irish, 
hut  that  Burns,  as  may  be  inferred,  thought  them  superior  to  the  Scotch ; while  Mr.  Thom- 
son, in  a letter  of  his  own,  admits  their  high  quality,  at  the  same  time  reconciling  himself  to 
his  act  of  spoliation,  right  royally,  thus  : — 

“We  have  several  true-born  Irishmen  on  the  Scottish  list,  but  they  are  now  naturalized, 
and  reckoned  our  own  good  subjects.”  (What  regal  condescension !)  “ Indeed , we  have  none 
letter.” — Thomson  to  Burns,  Feb.  5th,  1796. 

Verdict  for  the  plaintiff— the  case  being  proved  by  the  defendant’s  witnesses.  For  a 
special  case  of  a defeated  Scotch  claim,  see  page  38  in  this  volume. 

f It  is  said  by  Mr.  Henry  R.  Montgomery,  in  his  most  interesting  volume  already  quoted. 


100 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


that  frogs  were  really  unknown  in  Ireland  until  propagated  from  spawn  introduced  as 
an  experiment  by  a Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  What  a strange  taste  for  experi- 
ments this  old  gentleman  must  have  had!  Perhaps  there  is  sympathy  between  frogs 
and  Fellows — every  freshman  knows  that,  in  the  examination-hall,  at  least.  Fellows  are 
rather  given  to  croaking.  It  is  a curious  fact,  too,  that  this  very  university  was  repx*e- 
sented  in  Parliament  some  forty  years  ago  by  the  Plight  Hon.  John  Wilson  Croker. 


INSPIRING  FOUNT  OF  CHEERING  WINE. 

A close  translation  from  the  Irish. 

Air,  “Tiagharna  Mhaighe-eo”  (Lord  Mayo). 

Inspiring  fount  of  cheering  wine  ! 

Once  more  I see  thee  flow  ; 

Help  me  to  raise  the  lay  divine — 

Propitiate  thy  Mayo ! 

Mayo,  whose  valour  sweeps  the  field 
And  swells  the  trump  of  fame. 

May  Heaven’s  high  power  the  champion  shield, 
And  deathless  he  his  name  ! 

Of  glory’s  sons,  oh,  thou  the  heir— 

Thou  branch  of  honour’s  root! 

Desert  me  not,  hut  bend  thine  ear 
Propitious  to  my  suit. 

Oh  ! hid  thy  exiled  hard  return, — 

Too  long  from  safety  fled  ; 

No  more  in  absence  let  him  mourn, 

Till  earth  shall  hide  his  head  ! 

Shield  of  defence  and  princely  sway, 

May  he  who  rules  the  sky 

Prolong  on  earth  thy  glorious  day, 

And  every  good  supply  ! 

Thy  death  his  days  would  quickly  close 
Who  lives  hut  in  thy  grace ; 

And  ne’er  on  earth  can  taste  repose 
’TiU  thou  shalt  seal  his  peace ! 


This  song  is  the  production  of  an  humble  dependant  of  Lord  Mayo,  named  David 
Murphy,  his  harper,  who  having  got  into  disgrace,  hid  himself  in  Lord  Mayo’s  hall  on  a 
certain  Christmas  eve  after  nightfall;  and,  in  the  hope  of  winning  back  forgiveness, 
made  a twin  outpouring  of  music  and  verse.  The  verse  is  nothing  particular,  but  is 
about  as  good  as  mere  laudatory  verses  can  be,  and  may  be  considered  remarkable  as 
the  production  of  an  uneducated  man.  But  it  is  the  music  which  has  made  this  song  so 
celebrated.  It  is  a most  noble  melody.  Bunting  calls  it  “ one  of  the  finest  productions 
that  ever  did  honour  to  any  country.”  For  the  story,  see  “ Walker’s  Irish  Bards.” 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


101 


SMALILOU. 

It  is  among  my  earliest  recollections  hearing  this  queer  old  song  very  well  sung  in  the 
county  Westmeath.  It  may  be  given  as  representing  a certain  class  of  song  once  popular 
in  Ireland,  love-making  the  staple  of  all  such ; if  with  a spice  of  difficulty,  good ; — if  of 
difficulty  overcome,  better.  Though  not  of  much  literary  merit,  there  is  some  fun  in  it : so 
far,  at  least,  it  is  Irish. 

Theme  was  an  Irish  lad 
Who  loved  a cloister’d  nun, 

And  it  made  him  very  sad, 

F or  what  was  to  be  done  ? 

He  thought  it  a big  shame, 

A most  confounded  sin, 

That  she  could  not  get  out  at  all 
And  he  could  not  get  in : 

Yet  he  went  every  day,  as  he  could  do  no  more — 

Yet  he  went  every  day  unto  the  convent  door ; 

And  he  sung  sweetly, 

Smalilou,  smalilou,  smalilou ! 

And  he  sung  sweetly, 

Smalilou,  gra-ma-chree,  and  Taddy-whack. 

To  catch  a glimpse  Qf  her 
He  play’d  a thousand  tricks ; 

The  bolts  he  tried  to  stir, 

And  he  gave  the  walls  some  kicks ; 

He  stamp’d  and  rav’d,  and  sigh’d  and  pray’d, 

And  many  times  he  swore 
The  divil  twist  the  iron  bolts — 

The  divil  burn  the  door. 

Yet  he  went  every  day,  he  made  it  quite  a rule, 

Yet  he  went  every  day — and  look’d  very  like  a fool — 
Though  he  sung  sweetly,  &c. 

One  morn  she  left  her  bed, 

Because  she  could  not  sleep, 

And  to  the  window  sped 
To  take  a little  peep  : 

And  what  did  she  do  then  ? — 

I’m  sure  you’ll  think  it  right — 

She  bade  the  honest  lad  good  day, 

She  bade  the  nuns  good  night : 

Tenderly  she  listen’d  to  all  he  had  to  say, 

Then  jump’d  into  his  arms,  and  so  they  ran  away! 

And  they  sung  sweetly, 

Smalilou,  smalilou,  smalilou! 

And  they  sung  sweetly, 

Smalilou,  gra-ma-chree,  and  Paddy-whack. 

Tbe  refrain  of  this  song  is  open  to  the  same  censure  as  a large  class  of  the  songs  of  the 
period — it  is  utterly  senseless — mere  gibberish,  but  supposed  to  be  Irish  because  it  winds 
up  with  “ Paddy-whack.”  Fortunately  we  know  better  now. 


102 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


THE  MONKS  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  ST.  PATRICK, 

COMMONLY  CALLED 

THE  MONKS  OF  THE  SCREW. 

Right  Hon.  John  Philpot  Cueean. 

This  celebrated  Society  was  partly  political  and  partly  convivial;  it  consisted  of  two  parts— 
professed  and  lay  brothers.  As  the  latter  had  no  privileges  except  that  of  commons  in  the 
refectory,  they  are  unnoticed  here. 

The  professed  (by  the  constitution)  consisted  of  members  of  either  house  of  Parliament, 
and  barristers,  with  the  addition  from  the  other  learned  professions  of  any  numbers  not  ex- 
ceeding a third  of  the  whole.  They  assembled  every  Saturday  in  Convent,*  during  term- 
time,  and  commonly  held  a chapter  before  commons,  at  which  the  Abbot  presided,  or  in  his 
(very  rare)  absence,  the  Prior,  or  senior  officer  present.  Upon  such  occasions  all  the  mem- 
bers appeared  in  the  habit  of  the  order,  a black  tabinet  domino.  Temperance  and  Sobriety 
always  prevailed. 

Mr.  Curran  (who  was  Prior  of  the  order)  being  asked  one  day  to  sing  a song,  after 
commons,  said  he  would  give  them  one  of  his  own,  and  sang  the  following,  which  was 
adopted  at  once  as  the  charter  song  of  the  Society,  and  was  called  “ The  Monks  of  the 
Screw.” 

When  St.  Patrick  this  order  established, 

He  called  ns  the  “ Monks  of  the  Screw 

Good  Rules  he  revealed  to  our  Abbot 
To  guide  us  in  what  we  should  do  ; 

But  lirst  he  replenished  our  fountain 
With  liquor  the  best  in  the  sky ; 

And  he  said,  on  the  word  of  a saint, 

That  the  fountain  should  never  run  dry. 

Each  year,  when  your  octaves  approach, 

In  full  chapter  convened  let  me  find  you ; 

And  when  to  the  Convent  you  come, 

Leave  your  favourite  temptation  behind  you. 

And  be  not  a glass  in  your  Convent, 

Unless  on  a festival  found ; 

And,  this  rule  to  enforce,  I ordain  it 
One  festival  all  the  year  round. 

My  brethren,  be  chaste,  till  you’re  tempted ; 

While  sober,  be  grave  and  discreet ; 

And  humble  your  bodies  with  fasting, 

As  oft  as  you’ve  nothing  to  eat. 

Yet,  in  honour  of  fasting,  one  lean  face 
Among  you  I’d  always  require  ; 

If  the  Abbot  should  please,  he  may  wear  it, 

If  not,  let  it  come  to  the  Prior. f 

* The  Convent  was  in  St.  Kevin  Street,  Dublin. 

t William  Doyle  (Master  in  Chancery)  the  Abbot,  had  a remarkably  large  full  face.  Mr. 
Curran’s  was  the  very  reverse. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SOXGS. 


103 


Come,  let  each  take  his  chalice,  my  brethren, 

And  with  due  devotion  prepare, 

TV  ith  hands  and  with  voices  uplifted, 

Our  hymn  to  conclude  with  a prayer. 

May  this  chapter  oft  joyously  meet, 

And  this  gladsome  libation  renew, 

To  the  Saint,  and  the  Founder,  and  Abbot, 

And  Prior,  and  Monks  of  the  Screw’ ! 

This  Society  consisted  of  56  members ; and  Mr.  Wm.  Henry  Curran,  in  the  Memoir  of  his 
father,  adds  “ most  of  them  distinguished  men.”  I think  it  worth  while  to  give  a few  of 
their  names  and  titles.  Earl  of  Charlemont ; Earl  of  Arran ; Earl  of  Mornington,  (Duke  of 
Wellington’s  father);  Hussey  Burgh,  Chief  Baron;  Judge  Robert  Johnson;  Henry 
Grattan;  John  Philpot  Curran;  Woolfe,  Lord  Kilvvarden;  Lord  Avonmore ; Rev.  Arthur 
O’Leary  (Hon.).  The  Marquis  of  Townsend  joined  the  Society  while  he  was  Viceroy  of 
Ireland. 

That  the  festive  meetings  of  men  of  such  high  mark  must  have  been  of  more  than  ordinary 
brilliancy,  one  may  well  conceive,  but  the  most  eloquent  evidence  of  that  fact  was  given  by 
Curran  in  a touching  address  to  Lord  Avonmore,  while  sitting  on  the  judicial  bench;  so 
touching,  and  so  eloquent,  as  well  as  happily  illustrative  of  Curran’s  style,  that  it  is  worth 
recording : — 

“This  soothing  hope  I draw  from  the  dearest  and  tenderest  recollections  of  my  life— from 
the  remembrance  of  those  attic  nights,  and  those  refections  of  the  gods,  which  we  have 
spent  with  those  admired,  and  respected,  and  beloved  companions,  who  have  gone  before 
us;  over  whose  ashes  the  most  precious  tears  of  Ireland  have  been  shed.  [Here  Lord 
Avonmore  could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into  tears.]  Yes,  my  good  Lord,  I see  you  do 
not  forget  them.  I see  their  sacred  forms  passing  in  sad  review  before  your  memory.  I see 
your  pained  and  softened  fancy  recalling  those  happy  meetings,  where  the  innocent  enjoy- 
ment of  social  mirth  became  expanded  into  the  nobler  warmth  of  social  virtue,  and  the 
horizon  of  the  board  became  enlarged  into  the  horizon  of  man — where  the  swelling  heart 
conceived  and  communicated  the  pure  and  generous  purpose — where  my  slenderer  and 
younger  taper  imbibed  its  borrowed  light  from  the  more  matured  and  redundant  fountain 
of  yours.  Yes,  my  Lord,  we  can  remember  those  nights  without  any  other  regret  than  that 
they  can  never  more  return,  for 

* We  spent  them  not  in  toys,  or  lust,  or  wine, 

But  search  of  deep  philosophy. 

Wit,  eloquence,  and  poesy, 

Arts  which  I loved,  for  they,  my  friend,  were  thine!’  ’’—Cowley. 

Lord  Avonmore,  in  whose  breast  political  resentment  was  easily  subdued,  by  the  same 
noble  tenderness  of  feeling  which  distinguished  Mr.  Fox  upon  a more  celebrated  occasion, 
could  not  withstand  this  appeal  to  his  heart.  At  this  period  (1804)  there  was  a suspension 
of  intercourse  between  him  and  Mr.  Curran ; but  the  moment  the  court  rose,  his  Lordship 
sent  for  his  friend,  and  threw  himself  into  his  arms,  declaring  that  unworthy  artifices  had 
been  used  to  separate  them,  and  that  they  should  never  succeed  in  future. 


104 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


And  now  for  an  instance  of  Mr.  Curran’s  humour;  and  as  it  arises,  like  the  foregoing  gush 
of  eloquence,  from  allusions  to  “The  Monks  of  tne  Screw,”  it  is  evident  that  Society  held  a 
very  cherished  place  in  his  memory.  Mr.  Curran  visited  France  in  1787,  and  was  received 
with  distinguished  welcome  every  where, — among  such  receptions  was  one  at  a Convent, 
thus  recorded.  “He  was  met  at  the  gates  by  the  Abbot  and  his  brethren  in  procession;  the 


keys  of  the  Convent  were  presented  to  him,  and  his  arrival  hailed  in  a Latin  oration,  setting 
forth  his  praise,  and  their  gratitude  for  his  noble  protection  of  a suffering  brother  of  their 
Church  (alluding  to  his  legal  defence  of  a Eoman  Catholic  clergyman).  Their  Latin  was 
so  bad,  that  the  stranger  without  hesitation  replied  in  the  same  language.  After  expressing 
his  general  acknowledgment  for  their  hospitality,  he  assured  them,  that  nothing  could  be 
more  gratifying  to  him  than  to  reside  a few  days  among  them ; that  he  should  feel  himself 
perfectly  at  home  in  their  society ; for  that  he  was  by  no  means  a stranger  to  the  habits  of  a 
monastic  life,  being  himself  no  less  than  the  Prior  of  an  order  in  his  own  country,  the  order 
of  St.  Patrick,  or  the  Monks  of  the  Screw.  Their  fame,  he  added,  might  not  have  reached 
the  Abbot’s  ears,  but  he  would  undertake  to  assert  for  them,  that,  though  the  brethren  of 
other  orders  might  be  more  celebrated  for  learning  how  to  die,  the  ‘Monks  of  the  Screw’ 
were,  as  yet,  unsurpassed  for  knowing  how  to  live.  As,  however,  humility  was  their  great 
tenet  and  uniform  practice,  he  would  give  an  example  of  it  upon  the  present  occasion,  and 
instead  of  accepting  all  the  keys  which  the  Abbot  so  liberally  offered,  would  merely  take 
charge,  while  he  staid,  of  the  key  of  the  wine  cellar.” 

Curran's  Life , by  his  son  W in.  Henry  Curran. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


105 


THE  JUG  OE  PUNCH. 

’Twas  very  early  in  tlie  month  of  Jnne, 

As  I was  sitting  in  my  room, 

I heard  a thrush  sing  in  a hush, 

And  the  song  he  sung  was  a jug  of  punch. 

Tul  looral,  &c. 

What  more  divarsion  can  a man  desire, 

Than  to  be  seated  by  sung  coal  hre, 

Upon  his  knee  a pretty  wench, 

And  on  the  table — a jug  of  punch. 

Tul  looral,  &c. 

If  I were  sick  and  very  bad, 

And  was  not  able  to  go  or  stand, 

I would  not  think  it  at  all  amiss, 

To  pledge  my  shoes  for  a jug  of  punch. 

Tul  looral,  &c. 

When  I am  dead  and  in  my  grave, 

No  costly  tombstone  will  I have, 

But  I’ll  dig  a grave  both  wide  and  deep, 
With  a jug  of  punch  at  my  head  and  feet. 

Tul  looral,  &c. 

Now  yon  jovial  topers  as  yon  pass  by, 

If  you  are  thirsty,  step  in  and  try, 

And  with  your  sweethearts  never  flinch, 

To  dip  your  bills  in  a jug  of  punch. 

Tul  looral,  &c. 


This  queer  old  song  is  a great  favourite  in  Ireland.  Some  additional  verses  may  be  found 
to  it,  under  the  head  of  the  “ Sheebeen  House,”  in  the  second  series  of  my  “ Legends  and 
Stories  of  Ireland.” 


“ The  Muses  twelve  and  Apollio  famed, 

In  Castilian  pride  dhrinks  Pernicious  sthrames: 
But  I would  not  grudge  them  ten  times  as  much 
As  long  as  I had  a jug  o’punch. 

“ The  docthor  fails,  with  all  his  art. 

To  cure  an  impression  on  the  heart. 

But  if  life  was  gone — within  an  inch — 

What  would  bring  it  back  like  a jug  o’punch?” 

Then  follows,  as  above  — 

“ But  when  I am.  dead/5  <£c. 

G* 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


ICG 


THE  BOYS  OF  KILKENNY. 

Air,  “ Meeting  of  the  Waters.” 

Kilkenny  is  a place  an  editor  might  say  a great  deal  more  about  than  his  space,  in  such  a 
book  as  this,  will  permit.  Its  historic  associations  are  numerous  and  interesting ; and  first, 
as  regards  history,  it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  the  interesting  historian,  Hollinshed, 
received  his  education  in  the  grammar-school  of  Kilkenny,  of  which  he  says,  “ In  the  realm 
of  Ireland  was  no  grammar-school  so  good ; in  England,  I am  well  assured,  none  better.” 
lie  makes  grateful  mention  of  a certain  Mr.  Peter  White,  thus:  “Ana,  certes,  I 
acknowledge  myself  so  much  bound  and  beholding  to  him  and  his,  as,  for  his  sake,  I rever- 
ence the  meanest  stone  cemented  in  the  walls  of  that  famous  school.”  Here  stood  the 
palace  of  the  Bishop  of  Ossory,  also  many  a sacred  fane  of  no  small  architectural  beauty. 
Kilkenny  was  called  “The  Holy  City;”  but,  while  peace  was  preached  from  its  altars,  war 
was  made  from  its  castle;  for  here  was  the  seat  of  the  Butlers,  who  were  everlastingly 
fighting  with  the  Desmonds — a pugnacious  example  not  lost  on  the  renowned  cats  of 
this  place.  The  real  war  of  history  was  succeeded  by  the  mimic  warfare  01  the  stage,  for 
“terrific  combats”  were  achieved  in  the  private  theatricals  for  which  Kilkenny  was 
celebrated  towards  the  end  of  the  last  and  beginning  of  the  present  century.  In  these, 
the  most  distinguished  persons  were  the  actors— among  them  Moore,  whose  song  of  “ The 
Prince’s  Day”  was  written  here  in  1810,  for  a fete  given  in  honour  of  the  then  Prince  of 
Wales  (afterwards  George  IV.)  by  the  late  Major  Bryan,  of  patriotic  -and  festive 
celebrity.  This  is  rather  a long  notice  to  a short  song ; but,  though  a “ short  horse,” 
according  to  the  proverb,  “ does  not  take  much  currying,”  a short  song  may  be  very  sug- 
gestive of  work  to  an  editor. 

Oh  ! the  hoys  of  Kilkenny  are  nate  roving  blades, 

And  whenever  they  meet  with  the  dear  little  maids, 

They  kiss  them,  and  coax  them,  and  spend  their  money  free ; 

Oh  ! of  all  towns  in  Ireland,  Kilkenny  for  me. 

Oh  ! of  all  towns,  &c. 

Through  the  town  of  Kilkenny  there  runs  a clear  strame,* 

In  the  town  of  Kilkenny  there  lives  a fair  dame, 

Her  cheeks  are  like  roses — and  her  lips  much  the  same — 

Or  a dish  of  ripe  strawberries  smothered  in  crame. 

Or  a dish,  &c. 

Her  eyes  are  as  black  as  Kilkenny’s  famed  coal, 

And  ’tis  they  through  my  poor  heart  have  burnt  a big  hole  ; 

Her  mind,  like  its  river,  is  deep,  clear,  and  pure, 

But  her  heart  is  more  hard  than  its  marble  I’m  sure.f 
But  her  heart,  &c, 

* The  winding  and  limpid  Nore. 

t Spenser  celebrates  the  marble  of  Ireland— 

“ Of  hewen  stone  the  porch  was  fayrely  wrought. 

Stone  more  of  valew,  and  more  smooth  and  fine, 

Than  jett  or  marble  far  from  Ireland  brought;” 

The  Faerie  Queene,  Book  II.,  Canto  Lx 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


107 


Oil ! Kilkenny’s  a line  town  that  shines  where  it  stands,* 

And  the  more  I think  on  it  the  more  my  heart  warms ; 

If  I was  in  Kilkenny  I’d  feel  quite  at  home, 

For  it’s  there  I’d  get  sweethearts,  but  here  I get  none. 

For  it’s  there,  &c. 

* This  is  a plagiarism  from  an  old  song  to  which  much  interest  attaches.  Bunting,  in 
his  “Ancient  Music  of  Ireland”  (Dublin,  1840,  p.  97),  in  speaking  of  the  beautiful  air  of 
“ Bonny  Portmore,”  says,  “ The  air  is  probably  as  old  as  the  time  of  the  O’Neill’s  of 
Ballinderry,  to  whose  declining  fortunes  there  would  appear  to  be  an  allusion  in  the  first 
stanza  of  the  English  words,  which  are  still  sung  with  it — 

‘ Bonny  Portmore,  you  shine  where  you  stand. 

And  the  more  I think  on  you  the  more  my  heart  warms; 

But  if  I had  you  now  as  I once  had  before. 

All  the  gold  in  England  would  not  buy  you,  Portmore.’  ” 


The  song  of  “ The  Boys  of  Kilkenny”  had  once  great  popularity,  due  rather  to  the 
charming  melody  to  which  it  was  written  than  the  literary  merit  of  the  composition 
(though  the  local  allusion  to  the  coal  and  the  marble  is  good  enough),  and  is  still  popular 
among  the  humbler  classes  in  Ireland ; but,  in  the  higher,  it  was  quite  superseded  by 
Moore’s  exquisite  song,  “The  Meeting  of  the  Waters,”  by  which  name  the  air  is  now 
known,  though  the  original  name  of  the  air  is  “ The  Old  Head  of  Dennis.”  And  here  it 
may  be  remarked,  that  the  original  names  of  all  the  old  Irish  airs,  though  given  in  the 
musical  edition  of  “Moore’s  Melodies,”  have  been,  nevertheless,  displaced  by  the  leading  line 
of  the  songs  Moore  has  written  to  them ; a fact  sufficiently  proving  that  the  poet  rescued 
from  oblivion  the  national  music,  and  opened  to  the  world  in  general  a mine  of  melody 
which  might  otherwise  have  lain  under  the  unproductive  admiration  of  the  musical 
amateur  until  totally  lost.  Moore,  in  his  most  touching  farewell  to  his  harp,  in  the 
sixth  number  of  the  Irish  Melodies,  commencing  “ Dear  Harp  of  my  Country,”  modestly 
says — 

“ If  the  heart  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover. 

Have  throbb’d  at  our  lay,  ’twas  thy  glory  alone ; 

I was  but  as  the  wind  passing  heedlessly  over, 

And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I wak’d  was  thine  own.” 

I think  we  may  use  the  Image  of  the  wind  in  another  sense ; we  may  compare  the  old 
melody,  the  “ Breath  of  Song,”  to  the  wind,  which,  if  it  pass  over  some  desert  place,  “ we 
know  not  whence  it  cometh,  or  whither  it  goeth;”  but,  if  the  wind  pass  over  some  plant 
gifted  with  winged  seeds,  the  wind  leaves  the  track  of  its  course  by  the  fructifying  result 
of  its  progress ; so,  if  the  melody  touch  some  minstrel,  rich  in  the  seed  of  song,  seed  worthy 
of  taking  root  and  bearing  within  it  the  flowers  of  fancy,  then  the  melody  was  not  mads 
in  vain ; and  by  calling  into  life  a new  existence,  has  perpetuated  its  own. 


108 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


RORY  O’MORE. 


From  “ Songs  and  Ballads”  of  Samuel  Lovee. 


Young  Rory  O’More  courted  Kathleen  bawn, 
lie  was  bold  as  a hawk, — she  as  soft  as  the  dawn ; 

He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 

And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease ; 

“ Now  Rory,  be  aisy,”  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry — 

Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a smile  in  her  eye ; — 

“With  your  tricks,  I don’t  know,  in  troth,  what  I’m  about, 
Faith,  you’ve  teas’d  till  I’ve  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out ! ” 

“ Och,  jewel,”  says  Rory,  “ that  same  is  the  way 
You’ve  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a day, 

And  ’tis  plased  that  I am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 

For  ’tis  all  for  good  luck,”  says  bold  Rory  O’More. 

u Indeed,  then,”  says  Kathleen,  “don’t  think  of  the  like, 

For  I half  gave  a promise  to  soothering  Mike, 

The  ground  that  I walk  oil,  he  loves,  I’ll  be  bound.” 

“ Faith,”  says  Rory,  “ I’d  rather  love  you  than  the  ground.” 

“ Now,  Rory,  I’ll  cry,  if  you  don’t  let  me  go, 

Sure  I dlirame  every  night  that  I am  hating  you  so.” 

“ Och,”  says  Rory,  “ that  same  I’m  delighted  to  hear, 

For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear; 

So,  jewel,  keep  dhramin’  that  same  till  you  die, 

And  bright  mornin’  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie ; 

And  ’tis  plased  that  I am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 

Since  ’tis  all  for  good  luck,”  says  bold  Rory  O’More. 

“ Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you’ve  teased  me  enough, 

Sure  I’ve  thrash’d  for  your  sake  Dinny  Grimes  and  Jim  Duff, 
And  I’ve  made  myself,  dkrinkin’  your  health,  quite  a haste , 

So  I think,  after  that,  I may  talk  to  the  priest”  * 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 

So  soft,  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck ; 

And  he  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with  light, 

And  he  kiss’d  her  sweet  lips — don’t  you  think  he  was  right? 

“ Now  Rory,  leave  off,  sir,  you’ll  hug  me  no  more, 

That’s  eight  times  to-day  that  you’ve  kiss’d  me  before.” 

“ Then  here  goes  another,”  says  he,  “ to  make  sure, 

For  there’s  luck  in  odd  numbers,”  says  Rory  O’More. 

* Paddy’s  mode  of  asking  a girl  to  “name  the  day.” 

It  is  always  a difficult  matter  for  an  author  to  speak  of  his  own  works,  but,  as  so  many 
songs  in  this  collection  have  copious,  and  I hope  careful  annotations,  I trust  a few  words 
about  the  origin  of  Rory  O’More  may  be  given  without  being  considered  intrusive.  From 
an  early  period  I had  felt  that  Irish  comic  songs  (so  called)  were  but  too  generally  coarse 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS, 


109 


and  vulgar,  devoid  of  that  mixture  of  fun  and  feeling  so  strongly  blended  in  the  Irish 
character — that  a pig  and  a poker,  expletive  oaths,  “hurroos,”  and  “ Whack  fol  de  rols,” 
made  the  staple  of  most  Irish  comic  songs ; and  having  expressed  this  opinion  in  a company 
where  the  subject  was  discussed,  I was  met  with  that  taunting  question  which  sometimes 
supplies  the  place  of  argument,  viz.  “ Could  you  do  better  ? ” I said  I would  try ; and 
“ Kory  O’More”  was  the  answer.  Its  popularity  was  immediate  and  extensive ; so  much  so, 
that  on  the  occasion  of  her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria’s  coronation,  every  band  along  the  line 
of  procession  to  Westminster  Abbey  played  “ Rory  O’More”  during  some  part  of  the  day, 
and,  finally,  it  was  the  air  the  band  of  the  Life  Guards  played  as  they  escorted  her  Majesty 
into  the  park  on  her  return  to  Buckingham  Palace.  Being  called  upon  to  write  a novel, 
I availed  myself  of  the  popularity  attaching  to  the  name,  and  entitled  my  story  “ Kory 
O’More.”  The  success  of  the  novel  induced  the  Management  of  the  Adelphi  Theatre  to 
apply  to  me  to  dramatize  the  story,  and  in  this,  its  third  form,  *•  Rory  O’More  ’’  was  again 
received  by  the  public  with  such  approbation,  that  it  was  played  one  hundred  and  eight 
nights  in  the  first  season,  in  London,  and  afterwards  universally  throughout  the  king- 
dom. I should  not  have  said  so  much  about  this  trifle,  only  the  notes  in  this  collection 
of  songs  have  assumed  so  much  of  a gossiping  character  that  I thought  I might  venture  to 
show  from  what  a slight  cause  an  author’s  first  idea  may  be  generated  and  become 
amplified,  without  running  the  risk  of  being  charged  with  overweening  egotism. 


WHISKEY. 

Joseph  O’Leahy.  Air,  “ Bobbin  Joan.’* 

The  following  lively  metrical  tribute  to  our  “ Mountain  Dew”  is  from  the  pen  of  a gentle- 
man, a native  of  Cork,  where  the  song  had  its  first  popularity.  Its  merits  must  always  secure 
its  appearance  in  every  collection  of  Irish  songs,  where  a bacchanalian  section  has  place. 

Whiskey,  drink  divine ! 

Why  should  driv’lers  bore  us 
With  the  praise  of  wine, 

Whilst  we’ve  thee  before  us  ? 

Were  it  not  a shame, 

Whilst  we  gaily  fling  thee 
To  our  lips  of  flame, 

If  we  could  not  sing  thee  ? 

Whiskey,  drink  divine ! 

Why  should  driv’lers  bore  us 
With  the  praise  of  wine, 

Whilst  we’ve  thee  before  us  ? 

Greek  and  .Roman  sung 
Chian  and  Falernian — 

Shall  no  harp  be  strung 
To  thy  praise,  Hibernian  ? 


110 


CONVIVIAL  ANI)  COMIC  SONGS. 


Yes — let  Erin’s  sons — 

Gen’rous,  brave,  and  frisky — 

Tell  the  world,  at  once, 

They  owe  it  to  their  whiskey. 

Whiskey,  &c. 

If  Anacreon — who 

Was  the  grape’s  best  poet — 

Drank  our  Mountain- dew, 

How  his  verse  would  show  it : 

As  the  best  then  known, 

He  to  wine  was  civil ; 

Had  he  Inishowen 

He’d  pitch  wine  to  the  d — 1. 

Whiskey,  &c. 

Bright  as  beauty’s  eye, 

When  no  sorrow  veils  it ; 

Sweet  as  beauty’s  sigh, 

When  young  love  inhales  it ; 

Come,  then,  to  my  lip — 

Come,  thou  rich  in  blisses — 

Every  drop  I sip 

Seems  a shower  of  kisses. 

Whiskey,  &c. 

Could  my  feeble  lays 

Half  thy  virtues  number, 

A whole  grove  of  bays 

Should  my  brows  encumber. 

Be  his  name  adored, 

Who  summed  up  thy  merits 
In  one  little  word, 

When  he  called  thee  spirits . 

Whiskey,  &c. 

Send  it  gaily  round — 

Life  would  be  no  pleasure, 

If  we  had  not  found 

This  enchanting  treasure : 

And,  when  tyrant  death’s 
Arrow  shall  translix  ye, 

Let  your  latest  breaths 

Be  whiskey ! whiskey ! whiskey ! 

Whiskey ! drink  divine  ! 

Why  should  driv’lers  bore  us 

With  the  praise  of  wine, 

Whilst  we’ve  thee  before  us  ? 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS, 


111 


KATTY  MOONEY. 

I cotteted  Katty  Mooney,  dear, 

A girl  so  neat  and  cosey  ; 

Her  eyes  they  were  so  bright  and  clear, 

Her  lips  were  ripe  and  rosy. 

I bought  a pig  to  live  with  us, 

I got  a stick  to  mind  it ; 

’Twas  a beauty  too,  but,  like  the  rest, 

It  carried  its  tail  behind  it. 

Och,  hubbaboo,  och  phillaloo, 
Wasn’t  I a spooney, 

Ochone,  ochone,  to  grunt  and  groan, 
And  all  for  Katty  Mooney  ! 

Och,  we  were  glad  when  we  made  one, 

In  love  we  made  a dozen ; 

But  very  soon  she  brought  to  town 
Her  thirty-second  cousin : 

I made  him  eat,  I made  him  drink ; 

With  compliments  he  lined  me, 

But  the  reason  why  I ne’er  could  think, 

Till  he  stayed  one  day  behind  me. 

Och,  hubbaboo,  &c. 

I don’t  know  why  that  I went  back 
I wisht  I hadn’t  seen  thim, 

Eor  there  they  were  giving  smack  for  smack, 
And  the  pig  was  sitting  between  thim ; 

He  ran  away,  och  hubbaboo  ! 

May  the  devil  catch  and  bind  him, 

And  my  wife  may  go  to  the  devil  too, 

If  they  leave  the  pig  behind  thim. 

Och,  hubbaboo,  &o. 


This  belongs  to  a class  of  songs  alluded  to  in  the  Preface,  professing1  to  he  Irish  on  the 
strength  of  a pig  being  introduced  into  the  dramatis  persona.  It  is  not  racy  of  the  soil:  it 
was  not  written  by  an  Irishman ; the  word  spooney  is  sufficient  proof  of  that.  But,  never- 
theless, there  is  something  comical  in  the  song ; and  the  idea  of  the  pig  sitting  between  the 
false  pair,  a sort  of  third  party  in  the  conspiracy,  however  absurd,  is  provocative  of  merri- 
ment. The  music  was  composed  by  the  late  Mr.  Blewitt — and  a capital  air  it  is.  Mr. 
Biewitt  was  an  Englishman,  but  having  lived  in  Dublin  some  years,  his  quick  ear  caught 
up  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  Irish  lilt,  which  he  has  occasionally  imitated  with 


success, 


112 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


HAD  I THE  TUN  WHICH  BACCHUS  USED. 

R.  A.  Milliken. 

Had  I the  tun  which  Bacchus  used, 

I’d  sit  on  it  all  day ; 

For,  while  a can  it  ne’er  refused, 

He  nothing  had  to  pay. 

I’d  turn  the  cock  from  morn  to  eve, 

Nor  think  it  toil  or  trouble  ; 

But  I’d  contrive,  you  may  believe, 

To  make  it  carry  double. 

My  friend  should  sit  as  well  as  I, 

And  take  a jovial  pot ; 

For  he  who  drinks — although  he’s  dry — 

Alone,  is  sure  a sot. 

But  since  the  tun  which  Bacchus  used 
We  have  not  here — what  then  ? 

Since  god-like  toping  is  refused 
Let’s  drink  like  honest  men. 

And  let  that  churl,  old  Bacchus,  sit, 

Who  envies  him  his  wine  ? 

While  mortal  fellowship  and  wit 
Make  whiskey  more  divine. 

There  is  a happy  antithetical  point  made  in  this  song  between  the  celestial  beverage  of  the 
Pagan  God  and  the  humble  tippler  of  earth,  good  fellowship  and  wit  making  whiskey  more 
divine  than  the  grape  juice  of  the  solitary  Olympic  toper.  The  tun  carrying  double,  too,  is 
a pleasant  conceit,  and  gives  one  a notion  of  fellows  determined  to  “ go  it,“ 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


11 


WIDOW  MACHREE. 

From  “ Songs  and  Ballads,”  by  Samuel  Lover. 

Widow  Macheee,  it’s  no  wonder  you  frown, 

Och  hone  ! Widow  Machree; 

Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty  black  gown, 
Och  hone ! Widow  Machree. 

How  altered  your  air, 

With  that  close  cap  you  wear — 

’Tis  destroying  your  hair, 

Which  should  be  bowing  free ; 

Be  no  longer  a churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl, 

Och  hone ! Widow  Machree. 

Widow  Machree,  now  the  summer  is  come, 

Och  hone ! Widow  Machree  ; 

When  everything  smiles,  should  a beauty  look  glum  ? 
Och  hone  ! Widow  Machree. 

See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 

And  the  rabbits  and  hares, — 

Why,  even  the  bears 

How  in  couples  agree ; 

And  the  mute  little  fish, 

Though  they  can’t  spake,  they  wish. 

Och  hone ! Widow  Machree. 

Widow  Machree,  and  when  winter  comes  in, 

Och  hone  ! Widow  Machree ; 

To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a sin, 

Och  hone  ! Widow  Machree. 

Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 

And  the  kittle  sings  songs 
Full  of  family  glee ; 

Yet  alone  with  your  cup 
Like  a hermit  you  sup. 

Och  hone ! Widow  Machine. 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts  Ive  towld, 
Och  hone ! Widow  Machree, 

But  you’re  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in  the  cowld  ! 
Och  hone ! Widow  Machree. 

With  such  sins  on  your  head, 

Sure  your  peace  would  be  fied, 

Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed, 

Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 

That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying,  “ Och  hone!  Widow  Machree?” 


114 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


Then  take  my  advice,  darling  Widow  Machree, 
Och  hone  ! Widow  Machree  ; 

And  with  my  advice,  faith  I wish  you’d  take  me, 
Och  hone ! Widow  Machree. 
You’d  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  stir  up  the  fire, 

And  sure  Hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  me 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart 
When  you’d  me  near  your  heart, 

Och  hone ! Widow  Machree. 


BUMPER,  SQUIRE  JONES. 

Arthur  Dawson,  Baron  of  the  Exchequer. 

“ Respecting  the  origin  of  Cardan’s  fine  air  of  c Bumper,  Squire  Jones,’  we  have  heard 
a different  account  from  that  given  on  O’Neill’s  authority.  It  was  told  us  by  our  lamented 
friend,  the  late  Dean  of  St.  Patrick’s,  as  the  tradition  preserved  in  his  family,  and  was  to 
the  following  effect : — Carolan,  and  Baron  Dawson,  the  grand  or  great-grand  uncle  to  the 
Dean,  happened  to  be  enjoying,  together  with  others,  the  hospitalities  of  Squire  Jones  at 
Money  glass,  and  slept  in  rooms  adjacent  to  each  other.  The  bard,  being  called  upon  by 
the  company  to  compose  a song  or  tune  in  honour  of  their  host,  undertook  to  comply  with 
their  request;  and,  on  retiring  to  his  apartment,  took  his  harp  with  him,  and  under  the 
inspiration  of  copious  libations  of  his  favourite  liquor,  not  only  produced  the  melody  now 
know  n as  ‘ Bumper,  Squire  Jones,’  but  also  very  indifferent  English  words  to  it.  While  the 
Bard  was  thus  employed,  however,  the  Judge  was  not  idle.  Being  possessed  of  a fine 
musical  ear,  as  well  as  of  considerable  poetical  talents,  he  not  only  fixed  the  melody  on  his 
memory,  but  actually  wrote  the  noble  song  now  incorporated  with  it  before  he  retired  to 
rest.  The  result  may  be  anticipated.  At  breakfast  on  the  following  morning,  when 
Carolan  sang  and  played  Az's' composition,  Baron  Dawson,  to  the  astonishment  of  all  present, 
and  of  the  bard  in  particular,  stoutly  denied  the  claim  of  Carolan  to  the  melody,  charged 
him  with  audacious  piracy,  both  musical  and  poetical,  and  to  prove  the  fact,  sang  the 
melody  to  his  own  words  amidst  the  joyous  shouts  of  approbation  of  all  his  hearers — the 
enraged  bard  excepted,  who  vented  his  execrations  in  curses  on  the  Judge  both  loud  and 
deep.” — Dublin  University  Magazine  for  January  1841. 

I have  seen,  in  a “ History  of  the  Jongleurs  and  Troubadours”  (I  think  by  Miss  Brooke) 
a tale  very  similar  to  the  above.  In  Bunting’s  “ General  Collection  of  the  Ancient  Music  of 
Ireland”  (dementi,  London)  it  is  stated  that  the  song  was  only  imitated  from  the  original 
Irish  of  Carolan  by  Baron  Dawson,  which  I think  not  improbable.  Is  it  likely  such  a song 
could  have  been  written  over-night,  particularly  after  such  drinking  bouts  as  they  had  in 
those  days — and  written,  too,  to  a melody  only  just  caught  up  through  a partition  ? The 
translation — if  translation  it  be — is  evidently  a free  one,  however;  the  allusion  to  “ Salkeld 
and  Ventris”  is  clearly  a lawyer’s.  But,  whether  original  or  imitated,,  the  song  is  full  of 
spirit,  and  the  metre  ingeniously  adapted  to  a capriciously  sportive  melody. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


115 


Ye  good  fellows  all, 

Who  love  to  be  told  where  good  claret’s  in  store, 

Attend  to  the  call 

Of  one  who’s  ne’er  frighted, 

But  greatly  delighted, 

With  six  bottles  more. 

Be  sure  you  don’t  pass 
The  good  house  Moneyglass, 

Which  the  jolly  red  god  so  peculiarly  owns  ; 

’Twill  well  suit  your  humour, 

For  pray  what  would  you  more, 

Than  mirth,  with  good  claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones  ? 

Ye  lovers,  who  pine 

F or  lasses  that  oft  prove  as  cruel  as  fair, 

Who  whimper  and  whine 
For  lilies  and  roses, 

With  eyes,  lips,  and  noses, 

Or  tip  of  an  ear  : 

Come  hither,  I’ll  show  ye 
How  Phillis  and  Chloe 

Ho  more  shall  occasion  such  sighs  and  such  groans ; 

For  what  mortal  so  stupid 
As  not  to  quit  Cupid, 

When  called  by  good  claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire  J ones  ? 

Ye  poets,  who  write, 

And  brag  of  your  drinking  fam’d  Helicon’s  brook — 

Though  all  you  get  by  ’t, 

Is  a dinner,  oft-times, 

In  reward  of  your  rhymes — 

With  Humphry  the  duke  : 

Learn  Bacchus  to  follow, 

And  quit  your  Apollo, 

Forsake  all  the  Muses,  those  senseless  old  crones. 

Our  jingling  of  glasses, 

Your  rhyming  surpasses, 

When  crowned  with  good  claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones. 
Ye  soldiers  so  stout, 

With  plenty  of  oaths,  though  no  plenty  of  coin, 

Y/ho  make  such  a rout 
Of  all  your  commanders 
Who  served  us  in  Flanders, 

And  eke  at  the  Boyne : 

Come  leave  off  your  rattling 
Of  sieging  and  battling, 

And  know  you’d  much  better  to  sleep  in  whole  bones ; 

W ere  you  sent  to  Gibraltar, 

Your  notes  you’d  soon  alter, 

And  wish  for  good  claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones. 


116 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


Ye  clergy  so  wise — 

Who  myst  ries  profound  can  demonstrate  most  clear, 
How  worthy  to  rise ! 

You  preach  once  a week, 

But  your  tithes  never  seek 
Above  once  in  a year : 

Come  here  without  failing, 

And  leave  off  your  railing 
’Gainst  bishops  providing  for  dull  stupid  drones  ; 

Says  the  text  so  divine, 

“ What  is  life  without  wine  ?” 

Then  away  with  the  claret — a bumper,  Squire  Jones. 

Ye  lawyers  so  just, 

Be  the  cause  what  it  will,  who  so  learnedly  plead, 

How  worthy  of  trust ! 

You  know  black  from  white, 

Yet  prefer  wrong  to  right 
As  you  chance  to  be  fee’d : 

Leave  musty  reports, 

And  forsake  the  king’s  courts, 

Where  dulness  and  discord  have  set  up  their  thrones ; 
Burn  Salkeld  and  Yentris, 

With  all  your  damn’d  entries, 

And  away  with  the  claret — a bumper,  Squire  Jones. 

Ye  physical  tribe, 

Whose  knowledge  consists  in  hard  words  and  grimace 
Whene’er  you  prescribe, 

Have  at  your  devotion 
Pills,  bolus,  or  potion, 

Be  what  will  the  case : 

Pray  where  is  the  need 
To  purge,  blister,  and  bleed  ? 

When,  ailing  yourselves,  the  whole  faculty  owns 
That  the  forms  of  old  Galen 
Are  not  so  prevailing 

As  mirth  with  good  claret — and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones. 
Ye  foxhunters  eke, 

That  follow  the  call  of  the  horn  and  the  hound, 

Who  your  ladies  forsake 
Before  they’re  awake, 

To  beat  up  the  brake 
Where  the  vermin  is  found  : 

Leave  Piper  and  Blueman, 

Shrill  Duchess  and  Trueman — 

No  music  is  found  in  such  dissonant  tones  : 

Would  you  ravish  your  ears 
With  the  songs  of  the  spheres, 

Hark  away  to  the  claret — a bumper,  Squire  Jones  I 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


117 


BARNEY  BR ALL AGII AN’S  COURTSHIP. 


’Twas  on  a windy  night, 

At  two  o’clock  in  the  morning, 

An  Irish  lad  so  tight, 

All  wind  and  weather  scorning, 

At  Judy  Calaghan’s  door, 

Sitting  upon  the  pailings, 

His  love-tale  he  did  pour, 

And  this  was  part  of  his  wailings — 
Only  say 

You’ll  have  Mister  Brallaghan, 
Don’t  say  nay, 

Charming  Judy  Callaghan. 

Oh,  list  to  what  I say, 

Charms  you’ve  got  like  Yenus  ; 

Own  your  love  you  may, 

There’s  only  the  wall  between  us; 

You  lie  fast  asleep, 

Snug  in  bed  and  snoring, 

Round  the  house  I creep, 

Your  hard  heart  imploring. 

Only  say,  &c» 

I’ve  got  nine  pigs  and  a sow, 

I’ve  got  a stye  to  sleep  ’em ; 

A calf  and  a brindled  cow, 

And  got  a cabin  to  keep  ’em ; 

Sunday  hose  and  coat, 

An  old  grey  mare  to  ride  on, 

Saddle  and  bridle  to  hoot, 

Which  you  may  ride  astride  on. 

Only  say,  &c. 

I’ve  got  an  old  Tom  cat, 

Thro’  one  eye  he’s  staling; 

I’ve  got  a Sunday  hat, 

Little  the  worse  for  wearing ; 

I’ve  got  some  gooseberry  wine — 

The  trees  had  got  no  riper ; 

I’ve  got  a fiddle  fine, 

Which  only  wants  a piper. 

Only  say,  &e» 

I’ve  got  an  acre  of  ground, 

I’ve  got  it  set  with  praties ; 

I’ve  got  of  backey  a pound, 

And  got  some  tay  foi;  the  ladies 


118 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


I’ve  got  the  ring  to  wed, 

Some  whiskey  to  make  us  gaily, 

A mattress,  feather  bed, 

And  handsome  new  shillelah. 

Only  say,  &c. 

You’ve  got  a charming  eye, 

You’ve  got  some  spelling  and  reading; 

You’ve  got,  and  so  have  T, 

A taste  for  genteel  bleeding ; 

You’re  rich,  and  fair,  and  young, 

As  everybody’s  knowing, 

You’ve  got  a dacent  tongue, 

Whene’er  ’tis  set  a going. 

Only  say,  &c. 

For  a wife  till  death 

I am  willing  to  take  ye — 

But,  ocli,  I waste  my  breath, 

The  devil  himself  can’t  wake  ye ! 

’Tis  just  beginning  to  rain, 

So  I’ll  get  under  cover ; 

I’ll  come  to-morrow  again, 

And  be  your  constant  lover. 

Only  say,  &c. 

This  song  was  thought  worthy,  by  the  illustrious  “ Father  Prout”  (no  bad  judge— indeed 
he’s  as  good  as  a judge  and  jury  in  such  matters),  of  being  honoured  by  his  polyglot  pen 
with  a Latin  version.  I believe  he  did  the  same  honour  to  my  “ Molly  Carew.” 


0,  THE  DAYS  WHEN  I WAS  YOUNG! 

She  bid  an.  From  the  “ Duenna.” 

0,  the  days  when  I was  young  ! 

When  I laughed  in  fortune’s  spite, 
Talk’d  of  love  the  whole  day  long, 

And  with  nectar  crown’d  the  night : 
Then  it  was,  old  father  Care, 

Little  reck’d  I of  thy  frown ; 

Half  thy  malice  youth  could  bear, 

And  the  rest  a bumper  drown. 

Truth  they  say  lies  in  a well ; 

Why,  I vow  I ne’er  could  see, 

Let  the  water-drinkers  tell — 

There  it  always  lay  for  me ! 

F or  when  sparkling  wine  went  round 
Never  saw  I falsehood’s  mask  : 

But  still  honest  Truth  I found 
In  the  bottom  of  each  flask. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


139 


True,  at  length  my  vigour’s  flown, 
I have  years  to  bring  decay : 
Few  the  locks  that  now  I own, 
And  the  few  I have  are  gray ; 
Yet  old  Jerome,  thou  may’st  boast 
While  thy  spirits  do  not  tire, 
Still  beneath  thy  age’s  frost 
Glows  a spark  of  youthful  fire. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  SAINT  PATRICK. 

Samuel  Lover.  From  “ Songs  and  Ballads.” 

On  the  eighth  day  of  March  it  was,  some  people  say, 

That  Saint  Patrick  at  midnight  he  first  saw  the  day ; 

While  others  declare  ’twas  the  ninth  he  was  born, 

And  ’twas  all  a mistake  between  midnight  and  morn  ; 

For  mistakes  will  occur  in  a hurry,  and  shock, 

And  some  blamed  the  babby — and  some  blamed  the  clock — 

’Till  with  all  their  cross  questions  sure  no  one  could  know 
If  the  child  was  too  fast — or  the  clock  was  too  slow. 

Now  the  first  faction  fight  in  owld  Ireland,  they  say, 

Was  all  on  account  of  Saint  Patrick’s  birth-day, 

Some  fought  for  the  eighth — for  the  ninth  more  would  die, 

And  who  wouldn’t  see  right,  sure  they  blacken’d  his  eye! 

At  last,  both  the  factions  so  positive  grew 
That  each  kept  a birth-day — so  Pat  then  had  two, 

’Till  Father  Mulcahy,  who  showed  them  their  sins, 

Said  “No  one  could  have  two  birth  days  but  a twins.” 

Says  he,  “ Boys,  don’t  be  fighting  for  eight  or  for  nine, 

Don’t  be  always  dividing — but  sometimes  combine ; * 

Combine  eight  with  nine,  and  seventeen  f is  the  mark, 

So  let  that  be  his  birthday.” — “Amen,”  says  the  clerk. 

“ If  he  wasn’t  a twins,  sure  our  hist’ry  will  show — 

That,  at  least,  he’s  worth  any  two  saints  that  we  know !” 

Then  they  all  got  blind  drunk — which  completed  their  bliss, 

And  we  keep  up  the  practice  from  that  day  to  this. 

* This  is  a very  homely  way  of  saying  what  Moore  has  more  elaborately  turned  into 
polished  verse : — 

“ ’Twas  fate,”  they  ’ll  say,  “a  wayward  fate 
Your  web  of  discord  wove. 

And  while  your  tyrants  join’d,  in  hate. 

You  never  joined  in  love.” 

t The  17th  of  March  is  St.  Patrick’s  Day. 


WIDOW  MALONE. 

Charles  Lever. 

The  name  of  Charles  Lever  holds  a very  distinguished  place  in  the  lively  literature 
of  the  present  day,  and  of  popularity  he  has  obtained  a large  share.  This  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  when  we  consider  how  joyously  he  dashes  into  his  scenes  of  fun,  and,  by 
felicitous  description,  imparts  his  joy  to  others.  But,  though  merriment  is  the  staple  of 
his  writings,  his  works  have  an  occasional  tone  of  romance  not  a little  fascinating ; he 
describes  some  scenes  of  darker  interest  with  no  small  power ; while  his  pathetic  influence 
is  sufficient  to  enlist  our  sympathies.  Whoever  read  “St.  Patrick’s  Eve”  without  feeling 
hazy  about  the  eyes,  has  stronger  nerves  than  mine.  Some  captious  critics  have  attempted 
to  decry  Charles  Lever,  and,  among  other  things,  have  accused  him  of  sameness to  be 
sure,  an  eternal  round  of  pleasantry  is  offensive  to  some  stupid  people : the  sour  Athenians 
hated  Aristides  for  being  always  called  just.  Let  such  critics  have  a basket  of  oyster- 
shells,  by  all  means— the  oysters  I would  share  with  pleasanter  fellows.  Charles  Lever 
has  enriched  some  of  his  stories  with  admirable  comic  songs,  many  of  which  will  be  found 
in  this  collection. 

Did  you  Lear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone  ? 

Ohone ! 

Oh,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts, 

So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone? 


So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


121 


Of  lovers  she  had  a full  score, 

Or  more, 

And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 

In  store ; 

From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  crown, 

All  were  courting  the  W idow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 

’Twas  known, 

That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 

Ohone ! 

Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 

They  could  ne’er  catch  her  eye, 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 

’Till  one  Mister  O’Brien,  from  Clare, — 

How  quare ! 

It’s  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there, 

Put  his  arm  round  her  waist — 

Gave  ten  kisses  at  laste — 

“Oh,”  says  he,  “you’re  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own ! ” 

“Oh,”  says  he,  “you’re  my  Molly  Malone.” 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye ! 

Ne’er  thought  of  a simper  or  sigh, 

For  why? 

But  “Lucius,”  says  she, 

“ Since  you’ve  now  made  so  free, 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone.” 

There’s  a moral  contained  in  my  song, 

Not  wrong, 

And  one  comfort-,  it’s  not  very  long, 

But  strong, — 

If  for  widows  you  die, 

Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh, 

For  they’re  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 

Ohone ! 

Oh,  they’re  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone. 

7 


122 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


GARRYOWEN. 

Garryowen— in  English,  “Owen’s  garden”— is  a suburb  of  Limerick.  Next  to  “Pa- 
trick’s Day,”  Garryowen  is  the  favourite  national  air  of  Ireland.  It  is  fall  of  spirit, 
and,  from  making  a capital  quick  march,  it  has  been  pretty  well  heard  all  over  the  world 
from  the  military  bands  of  Ireland.  As  for  the  song,  it  appears  here,  not  from  any  literary 
merit,  but  merely  as  a curious  string  cf  rhymes,  that  have  long  been  favourite  with  the 
populace,  without  which  a volume  called,  emphatically,  "The  Book  of  Irish  Songs,”  coull 
not  properly  appear. 

Let  Bacchus’s  sons  he  not  dismayed, 

But  join  with  me  each  jovial  blade ; 

Come  booze  and  sing,  and  lend  your  aid 
To  help  me  with  the  chorus  : — 

Instead  of  Spa*  we’ll  drink  brown  ale, 

And  pay  the  reckoning  on  the  nail;f 
No  man  for  debt  shall  go  to  gaol 
From  Garryowen  in  glory ! 

We  are  the  hoys  that  take  delight  in 

Smashing  the  Limerick  lamps  when  lighting,  j; 

Through  the  streets  like  sporters  lighting, 

And  tearing  all  before  us. 

Instead,  &c. 

We’ll  break  windows,  we’ll  break  doors, 

The  watch  knock  down  by  threes  and  fours ; 

Then  let  the  doctors  work  their  cures, 

And  tinker  up  our  bruises. 

Instead,  &c. 

We’ll  heat  the  bailiffs,  out  of  fun, 

We’ll  make  the  mayor  and  sheriffs  run: 

We  are  the  hoys  no  man  dares  dun, 

If  he  regards  a whole  skin. 

Instead,  &c. 

Our  hearts,  so  stout,  have  got  us  fame, 

For  soon  ’tis  known  from  whence  we  came; 

Where-’  er  we  go  they  dread  the  name 
Of  Garryowen  in  glory. 

Instead,  &c. 

* The  spa  of  Castle  Connell,  about  six  miles  from  Limerick,  was  in  high  repute  at  the 
period  when  this  song  was  written. 

t “ Circular  tablets  of  metal  in  the  Exchange,  so  called,  and  where  it  was  customary  to 
pay  down  the  earnest  money.” — Sir  Charles  O’ Donnell.  “Paying  the  reckoning  on  the 
nail  was  a cant  phrase  for  knocking  a man  on  the  head.  ‘Nai!  him,’ being  equivalent 
to  ‘knock  him  down.’  ” — Cro/ton  Crolcer. 

J “ Lamps  were  first  put  up  in  the  streets  of  Limerick  at  the  sole  expense  of  Alderman 
Thomas  Rose,  in  1696.” — Ferrar’s  Limerick. 


CONVIVIAL  AXD  COMIC  SOXGS. 


123 


Johnny  Connell’s  tall  and  straight, 

And  in  his  limbs  he  is  complete  ; 

He’ll  pitch  a bar  of  any  weight, 

From  Garry owen  to  Thomond  Gate.* 

Instead,  &c. 

Garryowen  is  gone  to  wrack 
Since  Johnny  Connell  went  to  Cork, 

Though  Darby  O’Brien  leapt  over  the  dock 
In  spite  of  all  the  soldiers. 

Instead,  &c. 

* That  is,  from  one  side  of  Limerick  to  the  other.  In  Fitzgerald  and  MacGregor’s 
**  History  of  Limerick,”  when  noticing  the  customs  and  amusements  of  the  lower  orders, 
it  is  stated  that  the  tradesmen  formerly  marched  in  grotesque  procession  on  Midsummer’s- 
day,  and  that  “ the  day  generally  ended  in  a terrible  fight  between  the  Garryowen  and 
Thomond  Gate  boys — the  tradesmen  of  the  north  and  south  suburbs.” 

Indeed,  Limerick  must  have  been,  of  old,  a very  disorderly  place,  for  the  fact  is  alluded 
to  by  two  of  our  most  distinguished  Irish  novelists,  Griffin  and  Banim ; the  former  opening 
his  celebrated  story  of  “ The  Collegians  ” with  a riotous  night-scene  there.  An  amusing 
passage  occurs  in  some  lengthy  and  quaint  depositions  made  by  a gentleman  disturbed  at 
night  in  Limerick,  in  1710.  After  enumerating  various  causes  of  complaint,  the  deponent 
continues,  “ I and  my  family  were  again  disturbed  by  several  persons  who  passed  by  my 
house,  and  made  a strange  unusual  noise,  by  singing  with  feigned  voices,  and  by  beating 
with  keys  and  tongs  (as  it  appears  on  oath)  on  frying-pans,  brass  candlesticks,  and  such  like 
instruments'' 


BANISH  SOB  BOW. 

Right  Hon.  Geobge  Ogle. 

Banish  sorrow,  grief’s  a folly, 

Thought  unbend  thy  wrinkled  brow ; 
Hence  dull  care  and  melancholy, 

Mirth  and  wine  invite  us  now. 

Bacchus  empties  all  his  treasure ; 

Comus  gives  us  mirth  and  song ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure — 

Let  us  join  the  jovial  throng. 

Youth  soon  hies,  ’tis  hut  a season ; 

Time  is  ever  on  the  wing ; 

Let’s  the  present  moment  seize  on ; 

Who  knows  what  the  next  may  bring  ? 
All  our  days  by  mirth  we  measure  ; 

Other  wisdom  we  despise ; 

Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure — 

To  he  happy’s  to  he  wise. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 

Why  should  therefore  care  perplex  us  ? 

Why  should  we  not  merry  he  P 
While  we’re  here,  there’s  nought  to  vex  us, 
Drinking  sets  from  cares  all  free  ; 

Let’s  have  drinking  without  measure ; 

Let’s  have  mirth,  while  time  we  have ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure — 

There’s  no  drinking  in  the  grave. 


’TIS  A BIT  OF  A THING  THAT  A BODY  MAY  SING. 

Air,  “ The  Bunch  of  Green  Bushes.” 

Ocii,  is  that  what  you  mean,  now — a hit  of  a song  ? 

F aith,  I’ll  not  keep  you  waiting,  or  bother  you  long ; 

I don’t  need  no  teazing,  no  pressing,  nor  stuff, 

By  my  soul,  if  you’re  ready,  I’m  willing  enough ; 

But  to  give  you  an  end  I must  make  a beginning, 

In  troth,  tho’  the  music  is  not  mighty  fine, 

’Tis  a bit  of  a thing 
That  a body  may  sing, 

J ust  to  set  you  agoing,  and  season  the  wine. 

I once  was  a lover,  like  some  of  you  here, 

And  could  feed  a whole  day  on  a sigh  or  a tear ; 

No  sunshine  I knew  but  in  Katty’s  black  eye, 

And  the  world  was  a desert  when  she  was  not  by : 

But,  the  devil  knows  how,  I grew  fond  of  Miss  Betsy, 
Which  placed  in  my  heart  quite  another  design — 

’Tis  a bit  of  a thing 
That  a body  may  sing, 

Just  to  set  you  agoing,  and  season  the  wine. 

Then  Lucy  came  next,  with  a languishing  eye, 

Like  the  azures  of  heaven  we  see  in  the  sky ; 

The  beauties  of  Betsy  she  threw  in  the  shade, 

And  I vowed  that  for  ever  I’d  love  the  dear  maid; 

But  the  beautiful  Fanny  one  day  came  before  me, 

Which  placed  in  my  heart  quite  another  design — 

’Tis  a bit  of  a thing 
That  a body  may  sing, 

Just  to  set  you  agoing,  and  season  the  wine. 

Now  Fanny  was  stately,  majestic,  and  tall, 

In  shape  and  in  size  what  a goddess  you’d  call, 

I vowed  if  she  cruelly  slighted  my  hope, 

I’d  give  up  the  world,  and  die  by  a rope ; 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


125 


But,  before  I did  that,  sure  I saw  her  fat  sister, 

Which  placed  in  my  heart  quite  another  design : 

’Tis  a bit  of  a thing 
That  a body  might  sing, 

Just  to  set  you  agoing,  and  season  the  wine. 

’Tis  thus  I go  on,  ever  constant  and  blest, 

For  I find  I’ve  a great  store  of  love  in  my  breast, 

And  it  never  grows  cool,  for  whenever  I try 
To  get  one  in  my  heart— I get  two  in  my  eye; 

Thus  to  all  kinds  of  beauties  I pay  my  devotions, 

And  all  sorts  of  liquors  by  turns  I make  mine : 

So  I’ll  finish  the  thing, 

Now  you  see  that  I sing, 

With  a bumper  to  woman,  to  season  our  wine. 

This  was  a favourite  song  of  the  celebrated  Irish  comedian  familiarly  known  by  the 
name  of  Jack  Johnson,  alluded  to  somewhere  else  in  this  volume.  Though  in  the  first 
verse  the  music  is  said  to  be  “ not  mighty  fine,”  the  air  is  really  a very  sweet  and  charac- 
teristic Irish  melody,  to  which  Moore  has  written ; and  in  the  last  edition  of  his  vvotks  he 
gives  an  example  of  that  care  he  bestowed  in  polishing  his  compositions  up  to  the  very  last, 
a care  he  so  much  admired  in  others,  and  for  which  he  so  often  praises  Sheridan.  In  the 
first  edition  of  the  Melodies  the  song  begins  thus : — 

“ This  life  is  all  chequer’d  with  pleasures  and  woes, 

That  chase  one  another  like  waves  of  the  deep. 

Each  billow,  as  brightly  or  darkly  it  flows, 

Deflecting  our  eyes,  as  they  sparkle  or  weep.” 

In  the  last  general  edition  of  his  works  we  find  this  variation 

“ Each  brightly  or  darkly,  as  onward  it  flows.” 

However,  in  this  instance  I think  he  sacrifices  clearness  to  elegance ; but  in  the  last  four 
lines  of  the  first  verse  he  is  more  successful:  these  are  the  lines  as  originally  published : — 
“ But  pledge  me  the  cup — if  existence  would  cloy. 

With  hearts  ever  happy,  and  heads  ever  wise; 

Be  ours  the  light  grief  that  is  sister  to  joy. 

And  the  short  brilliant  folly  that  flashes  and  dies  !** 

Here  is  the  variation : — 

“ Be  ours  the  light  sorrow,  half-sister  to  joy. 

And  the  light  brilliant  folly  that  flashes  and  dies !” 

The  half-sister  is  very  happy,  and  the  line  altogether  improved  as  far  as  elegance  of  com- 
position is  concerned ; but  the  truth  is,  Moore  wrote  the  verses  first  for  singing,  and  for 
that  purpose  they  are  better  in  their  original  form ; he  made  the  variations  for  reading, 
and  for  that  purpose  they  are  improved : so  fine  was  his  ear,  so  fastidious  his  taste. 

In  the  second  verse  the  original  stands — 

“ When  Hylas  was  sent  with  his  urn  to  the  fount, 

Thro’  fields  full  of  sunshine,  with  heart  full  of  play.” 

The  variation  is  very  superior — 

“ Thro’  fields  full  of  light,  and  with  heart  full  of  play.” 

There  are  some  more  of  these  touches  of  finish,  adunguem;  but  I must  not  trespass  fur- 
ther however  tempted  by  admiration.  The  more  I think  of  the  perfection  of  his  songs,  the 
more  I regret  there  are  so  few  of  them  in  this  volume. 


126 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


THE  POPE  HE  LEADS  A HAPPY  LIFE. 

Charles  Levee.  From  tlie  German. 

The  Pope  lie  leads  a happy  life, 

He  knows  no  cares  nor  marriage  strife ; 

He  drinks  the  best  of  Phenish  wine — 

I would  the  Pope’s  gay  lot  were  mine. 

But  yet  not  happy  is  his  life — 

He  loves  no  maid  or  wedded  wife, 

For  child  hath  he  to  cheer  his  hope — 

I would  not  wish  to  he  the  Pope. 

The  Sultan  better  pleases  me, 

He  leads  a life  of  jollity, 

Has  wives  as  many  as  he  will — 

I would  the  Sultan’s  throne  then  fill. 

But  yet  he’s  not  a happy  man — 

He  must  obey  the  Alcoran : 

And  dares  not  taste  one  drop  of  wine— 

I would  not  that  his  lot  were  mine. 

So  here  I take  my  lowly  stand, 

I’ll  drink  my  own,  my  native  land ; 

I’ll  kiss  my  maiden’s  lips  divine, 

And  drink  the  best  of  lihenish  wine. 

And  when  my  maiden  kisses  me 
I’ll  fancy  I the  Sultan  he ; 

And  when  my  cheering  glass  I tope 
I’ll  fancy  then  I am  the  Pope. 


Whether  the  above  is  a close  or  a free  translation,  I know  not;  but  I do  know 
it  was  originally  written  for,  and  sung  at,  the  festive  meetings  of  the  “Burschen 
Club”  of  Dublin,  by  the  author;  and  I cannot  name  that  club  without  many  a remini- 
scence of  bright  evenings,  and  of  bright  friends  that  made  them  such.  Brightest 
among  them  all  was  my  early  and  valued  friend  Charles  Lever— by  title  “King”  of  the 
Burschenshaft,  while  my  humbler  self  was  honoured  with  the  title  of  their  “Minstrel,” 
they  having  recognised  in  me  some  qualities  which  the  world  was  afterwards  good  enough 
to  acknowledge.  Many,  indeed  most  of  the  men  of  that  club,  have  since  become  distin- 
guished; and  what  songs  were  written  for  occasions  by  all  of  them!  What  admirable 
fooling  of  the  highest  class  was  there ! In  the  words  of  Hamlet,  we  fooled  each  other  to 
the  top  of  our  bent ; but  over  all  the  wildest  mirth  there  was  a presiding  good  taste  I never 
once  saw  violated.  A distinguished  old  barrister,  who  had  known  much  of  the  former 
bright  days  of  Dublin,  was  our  guest  on  one  occasion,  and  he  said  that  he  never  had  wit* 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


127 


nessed  anything  like  our  festive  board,  since  the  famous  “Monks  of  the  Screw.”  Oh! 
merry  times  .of  the^Burschenshaft,  how  often  I recall  you:— and  yet  there  is  sometimes  a 
dash  of  sadness  in  the  recollection.  Too  truly  says  the  song— 

“ The  walks  where  we’ve  roam’d  without  tiring. 

The  songs  that  together  we’ve  sung, 

The  jest,  to  whose  merry  inspiring 
Our  mingling  of  laughter  hath  rung; 

0,  trifles  like  these  become  precious. 

Embalm’d  in  the  mem’ry  of  years, 

The  smiles  of  the  past,  so  remember’d — 

How  often  they  waken  our  tears.” 


THE  NIGHTCAP. 

This  mock-heroic  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  a scholar  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin 
and  its  classical  allusions  bear  out  such  a supposition,  while  the  “ many-caped  box-coat 
indicates  the  period  of  its  composition  to  be  in  the  “ four-in-hand  ” days  of  thirty  or  forty 
years  ago.  The  idea  is  well  carried  out,  and  the  imagery  ingeniously  sustained.  I have  an 
idea  the  author  was  a schoolfellow  of  mine. 

Jolly  Phoebus  his  car  to  the  coach-house  had  driven, 

And  unharnessed  his  high-mettled  horses  of  light ; 

He  gave  them  a feed  from  the  manger  of  heaven,* 

And  rubbed  them,  and  littered  them  down  for  the  night. 

Then  off  to  the  kitchen  he  leisurely  strode, 

Where  Thetis,  the  housemaid,  was  sipping  her  tea ; 

He  swore  he  was  tired  with  that  rough  up-hill  road, 

He’d  have  none  of  her  slops  nor  hot  water,  not  he. 

So  she  took  from  the  corner  a little  cruiskeen 
W ell  filled  with  the  nectar  Apollo  loves  best — 

From  the  neat  Bog  of  Allen,  some  pretty  poteen — 

And  he  tippled  his  quantum  and  staggered  to  rest. 

His  many-caped  box-coat  around  him  he  threw, 

For  his  bed,  faith,  ’twas  dampish,  and  none  of  the  best ; 

All  above  him  the  clouds  their  bright  fringed  curtains  drew, 
And  the  tuft  of  his  nightcap  lay  red  in  the  west. 

9 “Giving  a feed  ” reminds  me  of  an  admirable  jeu  d’ esprit  of  Hood’s  in  the  form  of  an 
ode  to  railway  companies  (then  recently  established)  by  an  ex-hostler  of  a coaching 
establishment  broken  up.  The  hostler,  looking  upon  the  locomotive  (the  iron-horse)  with 
spite  exclaims — 

• “ May  thieving  hostlers  steal  their  coals,  and  give 
Their  blackguard  hanimals  a feed  o’  slates  1 ” 


128 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


I’M  A RANTING,  ROVING  BLADE-. 

The  Guide’s  song.  From  the  Drama  of  “ The  White  Horse  of  the  Peppers.’* 
Samuel  Loveb. 

Whoo!  I’m  a ranting,  roving  blade, 

Of  never  a thing  was  I ever  afraid ; 

I’m  a gintleman  born,  and  I scorn  a thrade, 

And  I’d  be  a rich  man  if  my  debts  was  paid. 

But  my  debts  is  worth  something ; this  truth  they  instil, — 
That  pride  makes  us  fall  all  against  our  wall ; 

F or  ’twas  pride  that  broke  me — I was  happy  until 
I was  ruined  all  out  by  my  tailor’s  bill.* 

I’m  the  finest  guide  you  ever  did  see, 

I know  ev’ry  place  of  curosity 

From  Thig-a-na  Vauragh  to  Donaghadee; 

And  if  you’re  for  sport  come  along  wid  me. 

I’ll  lade  you  sporting  round  about — - 

We’ve  wild  ducks  and  widgeon,  and  snipe,  and  throut; 

And  I know  where  they  are  and  what  they’re  about, 

And  if  they’re  not  at  home,  then  I’m  sure  they’re  out. 

The  miles  in  this  counthry  much  longer  be — 

But  that  is  a saving  of  time  d’you  see, 

For  two  of  our  miles  is  aiqual  to  three, 

Which  shortens  the  road  in  a great  degree. 

And  the  roads  in  this  place  is  so  plenty,  we  say 
That  you’ve  nothing  to  do  but  to  find  your  way ; 

If  you’re  hurry’s  not  great,  and  you’ve  time  to  delay, 

You  can  go  the  short  cut  that’s  the  longest  way. 

And  I’ll  show  you  heaps  of  good  drinkin’  too, 

For  I know  the  place  where  the  whiskey  grew ; 

A bottle  is  good  when  it’s  not  too  new, 

And  I’m  fond  of  one,  but  I’d  die  for  two. 

Thruth  is  scarce  when  liars  is  near, 

But  squeeling  is  plenty  when  pigs  you  shear, 

And  mutton  is  high  when  cows  is  dear, 

And  rint  it  is  scarce  four  times  a-year. 


* This  is  a joke  that  tells  to.  the  eye  in  the  drama  where  Gerald  Pepper,  in  his  disguise, 
appears  in  rags.  Without  this  explanation  the  line  is  as  little  satisfactory  as  any  other 
tailor’s  bill. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


129 


Such  a country  for  growing  you  ne’er  did  behowkl, 

We  grow  rich  when  we’re  poor,  we  grow  hot  when  we’re  cowld ; 
And  the  girls  they  know  bashfulness  makes  us  grow  bowld ; 
We  grow  young  when  we  like,  but  we  never  grow  owld. 

And  the  sivin  small  sinses  grows  natural  here, 

F or  praties  has  eyes,  and  can  see  quite  clear ; 

And  the  kittles  is  singing  with  scalding  tears, 

And  the  corn-fields  is  listening  with  all  their  ears. 

But  along  with  sivin  sinses  we  have  one  more — 

Of  which  I forgot  for  to  tell  you  before — • 

’Tis  nonsense,  spontaneously  gracing  our  shore, 

And  I’ll  tell  you  the  rest  when  I think  of  more. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GLASS. 

John  F.  Waller,  LL.D. 

The  lyric  literature  of  Ireland  is  indebted  to  Mr.  Waller  for  some  most  admirable 
examples;  and  in  whatever  mode  he  chooses  to  indulge,  he  displays  a rare  power  of  execu- 
tion. His  songs  illustrative  of  Irish  custom,  character,  and  feeling,  are  truly  “racy  of  the 
soil,”  while  his  amatory  and  convivial  efl'usions  abound  with  happy  graces  and  brilliant 
fancies.  The  songs  of  “ Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  is  under  your  feet,  love,”  and  “ Leave 
us  a lock  of  your  hair,”*  uphold  his  fame  in  the  former  particular ; while  the  admirable 
lyric  that  follows  affords  brilliant  proof  of  his  power  in  the  latter.  Most  ingeniously  and 
gracefully  has  the  poet  wrought  out  a singularly  happy  thought. 

Come,  pusb  round  the  flagon,  each  brotber, 

But  fill  bumper-bigb  ere  it  pass  ; 

And  while  you  hob-knob  one  another, 

I’ll  sing  you  (C  The  Song  of  the  Glass.” 

Once  Genius,  and  Beauty,  and  Pleasure 
Sought  the  goddess  of  Art  in  her  shrine, 

And  prayed  her  to  fashion  a treasure, 

The  brightest  her  skill  could  combine, 

Said  the  goddess,  well  pleased  at  the  notion, 

“ Most  gladly  I’ll  work  your  behest ; 

From  the  margin  of  yonder  blue  ocean, 

Let  each  bring  the  gift  that  seems  best.” 

Chorus — Then  push  round  the  flagon,  &c. 

Beauty  fetched  from  her  own  ocean- water 
The  sea-wraik  that  lay  on  the  strand, 

And  Pleasure  the  golden  sands  brought  her 
That  he  stole  from  Time’s  tremulous  hand. 


* These  songs  will  be  found  elsewhere  in  this  volume. 


130 


COX  VI VIAL  AXD  COMIC  SOXGS. 


But  Genius  went  pondering  and  chusing 
Where  gay  shells  and  sea-flowers  shine. 
Grasped  a sun-lighted  wave  in  his  musing, 

And  found  his  hand  sparkling  with  brine. 

Then  push  round  the  flagon,  &c. 

“ ’Tis  well,”  said  the  goddess,  as,  smiling, 

Each  offering  she  curiously  scanned, 

On  her  altar  mysteriously  piling 

The  brine,  and  the  wraik,  and  the  sand ; 
Mixing  up,  with  strange  spells  as  she  used  them, 
Salt,  soda,  and  flint  in  a mass ; 

With  the  flame  of  the  lightning  she  fused  them, 
And  the  marvellous  compound  was — Glass  ! 
Then  push  round  the  flagon,  &c. 

Beauty  glanced  at  the  crystal,  half  frighted, 

For  stirring  with  life  it  was  seen, 

Till,  gazing,  she  blushed  all  delighted, 

As  she  saw  her  own  image  within. 

“ Henceforth,”  she  exclaimed,  “be  thou  ever 
The  mirror  to  Beauty  most  dear ; 

Hot  from  steel,  or  from  silver,  or  river, 

Is  the  reflex  so  lustrous  or  clear.” 

Then  push  round  the  flagon,  &c. 

But  Genius  the  while  rent  asunder 
A fragment,  and  raising  it  high, 

Looked  through  it,  beholding  with  wonder 
Hew  stars  over- clustering  the  sky. 

With  rapture  he  cried,  “ How  is  given 
To  Genius  the  power  divine 
To  draw  down  the  planets  from  heaven, 

Or  roam  through  the  stars  where  they  shine.33 
Then  push  round  the  flagon,  &c. 

The  rest  fell  to  earth — Pleasure  caught  it — 
Plunged  his  bowl,  ere  it  cooled,  in  the  mass  j 
To  the  form  of  the  wine-oup  he  wrought  it, 

And  cried,  “ Here's  the  true  use  of  Glass /” 
Then  leave,  boys,  the  mirror  to  woman — 
Through  the  lens  let  astronomers  blink — 
There’s  no  glass  half  so  dear  to  a true  man 
As  the  wine-glass  when  filled  to  the  brink. 

Then  push  round  the  flask,  each  good  fellow, 
Let’s  capture  old  Time  ere  he  pq,ss ; 

We’ll  steal  all  his  sands  while  he’s  mellow? 
And  fill  with  the  grape-juice  his  glass, 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


131 


IT’S  LITTLE  FOR  GLORY  I CARE. 

Charles  Lever.  Air,  “ The  Grinder.” 

It’s  little  for  glory  I care ; 

Sure  ambition  is  only  a fable  ; 

I’d  as  soon  be  myself  as  Lord  Mayor, 

With  lashins  of  drink  on  tbe  table. 

I like  to  lie  down  in  tbe  sun, 

And  drame  wben  my  faytures  is  scorcbin’, 
That  when  I’m  too  ould  for  more  fun, 

Why,  I’ll  marry  a wife  with  a fortune. 

And  in  winter,  with  bacon  and  eggs, 

And  a place  at  the  turf  fire  basking, 

Sip  my  punch  as  I roasted  my  legs, 

Oh ! the  devil  a more  I’d  be  asking. 

For  I haven’t  a jaynius  for  work, — 

It  was  never  the  gift  of  the  Bradies, — 
But  I’d  make  a most  illigant  Turk, 

For  I’m  fond  of  tobacco  and  ladies. 


CRUISKIN  LAWN.* 

Let  the  farmer  praise  his  grounds, 

Let  the  huntsman  praise  his  hounds, 

The  shepherd  his  dew-scented  lawn  ; 

But  I,  more  bless’ d than  they, 

Spend  each  happy  night  and  day 

With  my  charming  little  cruiskin  lawn . 

Gra-ma-chree  ma  cruiskin , 

Slainte  geal  ma  vourneen, 

Gra-ma-chree  a coolin  bawn. 

Gra-ma-chree  ma  cruiskin , 

Slainte  geal  ma  vourneen , 

Gra-ma-chree  a coolin , bawn , baton , baton, 
Gra-ma-chree  a coolin  bawn. 

* Little  jug.  The  chorus,  without  which  this  song  would  be  as  short  of  its  honours  as 
a highland  chieftain  without  “his  tail  on,”  ( vide  Waverley),  is  given  in  deference  to  the 
integrity  of  the  original,  in  Irish.  The  spelling  is  not  quite  correct,  hut  as  nearly  so  as 
the  representation  of  the  sound  of  the  Irish  will  permit.  I am  not  a Celtic  scholar,  but  it 
would  be  easy  to  give  the  real  spelling  of  the  words,  and  in  the  Irish  alphabetical  character, 
too,  if  it  had  been  thought  requisite.  The  meaning  of  the  chorus,  in  English,  is  some- 
thing like  the  following— 

“ My  heart’s  love  is  my  little  jug. 

Bright  health  to  my  darling ! 

My  heart’s  love,  her  fair  locks,”  &c. 


132 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


Immortal  and  divine, 

Great  Bacchus,  god  of  wine,f 
Create  me  by  adoption  yonr  son, 

. In  hope  that  you’ll  comply 

That  my  glass  shall  ne’er  run  dry, 

JSTor  my  smiling  little  cruiskin  laivn. 

Gra-ma-chree,  &o» 

And  when  grim  Death  appears, 

In  a few  hut  pleasant  years, 

To  tell  me  that  my  glass  has  run ; 

I’ll  say  begone,  you  knave, 

For  hold  Bacchus  gave  me  leave 
To  take  another  cruiskin  lawn. 

Gra-ma-chree,  &c. 

Then  fill  your  glasses  high, 

Let’s  not  part  with  lips  adry, 

Though  the  lark  now  proclaims  it  is  dawn ; 

And  since  we  can’t  remain, 

May  we  shortly  meet  again, 

To  fill  another  cruiskin  lawn. 

Gra-ma-chree,  &c. 

t Here  we  have  one  of  the  numerous  instances  of  the  love  of  the  heathen  mythology  on 
the  part  of  the  Irish.  I remember  a street  ballad,  in  which  the  poet  insinuates  that  whiskey 
was  the  draught  divine,  by  the  phrase — 

“Bacchus’s  still.'* 

Burns,  by  the  way,  adopts  his  native  phraseology,  when  he  calls  the  Castalian  fount — 
“Castalia’s  burn,  and  a’  that.” 


LARRY  M ‘ H A L E . 

Chaeles  Levee. 

Oh!  Larry  M‘Hale  he  had  little  to  fear, 

And  never  could  want  when  the  crops  didn’t  fail ; 

He’d  a house  and  demesne  and  eight  hundred  a-year, 

And  the  heart  for  to  spend  it,  had  Larry  M‘Hale ! 

The  soul  of  a party,— the  life  of  a feast, 

And  an  illigant  song  he  could  sing,  I’ll  he  hail ; 

He  would  ride  with  the  rector,  and  drink  with  the  priest, 
Oh ! the  broth  of  a hoy  was  old  Larry  M‘Hale. 

It’s  little  he  cared  for  the  judge  or  recorder,* 

His  house  was  as  big  and  as  strong  as  a jail ; 

With  a cruel  four-pounder,  lie  kept  all  in  great  order, 
He’d  murder  the  country,  would  Larry  M‘Hale. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


133 


He’d  a blunderbuss  too  ; of  horse-pistols  a pair ; 

But  his  favourite  weapon  was  always  a flail : 

I wish  you  could  see  how  he’d  empty  a fair, 

For  he  handled  it  nately,  did  Larry  M‘Hale. 

His  ancestors  was  kings  before  Moses  was  born  ; 

His  mother  descended  from  great  Grana  Uaile; 

He  laughed  all  the  Blakes  and  the  Frenches  to  scorn : 

They  were  mushrooms  compared  to  old  Larry  MTIale. 

He  sat  down  every  day  to  a beautiful  dinner, 

With  cousins  and  uncles  enough  for  a tail ; 

And,  though  loaded  with  debt,  oh ! the  devil  a thinner 
Could  law  or  the  sheriff  make  Larry  M‘Hale. 

With  a larder  supplied,  and  a cellar  well-stored, 

None  lived  half'  so  well  from  Fair-Head  to  Kinsale, 

And  he  piously  said,  “ I’ve  a plentiful  board, 

And  the  Lord  he  is  good  to  old  Larry  M‘Hale.” 

So  fill  up  your  glass,  and  a high  bumper  give  him, 

It’s  little  we’d  care  for  the  tithes  or  repale ; 

For  ould  Erin  would  be  a fine  country  to  live  in, 

If  we  only  had  plenty,  like  Larry  MTIale. 

* I forget  the  name  of  the  quaint  old  chronicler  who,  speaking  of  the  unsettled  state  of 
Ireland,  writes,  “ They  say  the  King’s  writ  runneth  not  here,  but  to  that  I say  nay  : the 
King’s  writ  doth  runne, — but  it  runneth  awaye.” 

Once  upon  a time  it  was  nearly  as  much  as  a bailiff’s  life  was  worth  to  cross  the  Shan- 
non westward  with  a writ.  If  he  escaped  with  his  life,  he  was  sure  to  get  rough  treatment 
anyhow.  One  fine  morning,  for  example,  a bailiff  returned  to  the  solicitor  who  had  sent 
him  into  Galway  with  the  king’s  parchment,  and  his  aspect  declared  discomfiture : he 
looked  singularly  bilious,  moreover.  “ I see,”  said  the  attorney,  “you  did  not  serve  it.” 

. “ No,  faith.” 

“Then  you  will  return  it  with  an  affidavit  that” — 

“ I can’t  return  it,”  said  the  bailiff. 

,<vWhy  not  ? ” 

“ They  cotch  me  and  made  me  ate  it.’* ** 

“ Is  it  eat  the  parchment  ? ” 

**  Every  scrap  of  it.” 

“ And  what  did  you  do  with  the  seal  ? ” 

**  They  made  me  eat  that  too,  the  villians !” 

Let  it  not  be  imagined,  however,  that  we  had  all  the  fun  to  ourselves  in  Ireland,  or  that 
we  can  even  claim  originality  in  our  boluses  for  bailiffs ; for  it  is  recorded  that  a certain 
“ Roger  Lord  Clifford,  who  died  1327,  was  so  obstinate  and  careless  of  the  king’s  displea- 
sure, as  that  he  caused  a pursuivant  that  served  a writ  upon  him  in  the  Baron’s  chamber, 
there  to  eat  and  swallow  down  part  of  the  wax  that  the  said  writ  was  sealed  with,  as  it 
were  in  contempt  of  the  said  king.” — Memoir  of  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  MS. 


134 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


MARY  DRAPER. 

Charles  Lever. 

Don’t  talk  to  me  of  London  dames, 

Nor  rave  about  your  foreign  flames, 

That  never  lived, — except  in  dram 
Nor  shone,  except  on  paper ; 

I’ll  sing  you  ’bout  a girl  I knew, 

Who  lived  in  Ballywhackmacrew, 

And,  let  me  tell  you,  mighty  few — 

Could  equal  Mary  Draper. 

Her  cheeks  were  red,  her  eyes  were  blue, 

Her  hair  was  brown  of  deepest  hue, 

Her  foot  was  small,  and  neat  to  view, 

Her  waist  was  slight  and  taper ; 

Her  voice  was  music  to  your  ear, 

A lovely  brogue,  so  rich  and  clear, 

Oh,  the  like  I ne’er  again  shall  hear 
As  from  sweet  Mary  Diaper. 

She’d  ride  a wall,  she’d  drive  a team, 

Or  with  a fly  she’d  whip  a stream, 

Or  may  be  sing  you  “ Rousseau’s  dream.” 

For  nothing  could  escape  her; 

I’ve  seen  her,  too — upon  my  word — 

At  sixty  yards  bring  down  her  bird — 

Oh  ! she  charmed  all  the  Forty- third  ! 

Did  lovely  Mary  Draper. 

And,  at  the  spring  assizes  ball, 

The  junior  bar  would,  one  and  all, 

For  all  her  fav’rite  dances  call, 

And  Harry  Deane*  would  caper  ; 

Lord  Clare f would  then  forget  his  lore ; 

King’s  counsel  voting  law  a bore, 

Were  proud  to  figure  on  the  floor 
For  love  of  Mary  Draper. 

* Harry  Deane  Grady,  a distinguished  lawyer  on  the  Western  Circuit, 
f Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland,  celebrated  for  his  hatred  of  Curran.  He  carried  this  feeling 
to  the  unjust  and  undignified  length  of  always  treating  him  with  disrespect  in  Court, 
to  the  great  injury  of  Curran’s  practice.  On  one  occasion,  when  that  eminent  man  was 
addressing  him,  Lord  Clare  turned  to  a pet  dog  beside  him  on  the  bench,  and  gave 
all  the  attention  to  his  canine  favourite  which  he  should  have  bestowed  on  the  counsel. 
Curran  suddenly  stopped.  Lord  Clare  observing  this,  said,  “You  may  go  on,  Mr.  Curran— 
I’m  listening  to  you.”  “ I beg  pardon  for  my  mistake,  my  Lord,”  replied  Curran ; “ I 
stopped,  my  Lord,  because  I thought  your  Lordships  were  consulting .” 


CONVIVIAL  AND  C03IIC  SONGS. 


135 


The  parson,  priest,  sub-sheriff  too, 

Were  all  her  slaves,  and  so  would  you, 

If  you  had  only  hut  one  view 
Of  such  a face  or  shape,  or 
Her  pretty  ancles — but,  alone, 

It’s  only  west  of  old  Athlone 
Such  girls  were  found — and  now  they’re  gone — 
So,  here’s  to  Mary  Draper  ! 


PHELIM  O’NEILE. 

Carolan. 

Translated  by  Thomas  Furlong. 


At  length  thy  hard  is  steering, 

To  End  thy  gay  hearth  again ; 

Thy  hand,  thy  voice  so  cheering, 

Still  soothes  him  in  grief  or  pain : 

Thy  sires  have  shone  in  story, 

Their  fame  with  friendly  pride  we  hail ; 

But  a milder,  gentler,  glory 
Is  thine,  my  belov’d  O’Eeile  I 

Still  cheerful  have  I found  thee, 

All  changeless  in  word  or  tone  ; 

Still  free  when  friends  were  round  thee, 
And  free  with  thy  bard  alone  ; 

Fill  up  the  howls — be  drinking — 

’Tis  cheering  still,  in  woe  or  weal ; 

Come  pledge  with  lips  unshrinking, 

The  dear,  the  belov’d  O’ISeile  ! 

Of  blameless  joy  the  centre, 

Thy  home  thro’  each  night  hath  been, 

There  might  the  wanderer  enter, 

And  there  the  blind  bard  was  seen  ; 

There  wit  and  sport  came  blended 
In  careless  song  or  merry  tale ; 

But  let  thy  praise  be  ended — 

Who  loves  not  my  lov’d  O’Neile  ? 


“Time  has  not  handed  down  any  particulars  of  Phelim  O’Neile,  here  commemorated,  except 
that  he  was  descended  from  that  powerful  family  which  so  long  ruled  Ireland  with  sove- 
reign sway.  The  violent  commotions  of  the  seventeenth  century  struck  to  the  dust  the 
topmost  branch  of  this  great  Millesian  tree.” — Hardiman’s  Minstrelsy. 


136 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


PADDY  THE  PIPER. 

When  I was  a boy  in  my  father’s  mud  edifice, 

Tender  and  bare  as  a pig  in  a stye, 

Out  of  the  door  as  I look’d  with  a steady  phiz, 

Who  but  Pat  Murphy,  the  piper,  came  by ! 

Says  Paddy  ‘ ‘ but  few  play 
This  music — can  you  play  ?” 

Says  I,  “ I can’t  tell,  for  I never  did  try.” 

He  told  me  that  he  had  a charm 
To  make  the  pipes  prettily  speak ; 

So  he  squeez’d  a bag  under  his  arm, 

And  sweetly  they  set  up  a squeak. 

With  my  far  ala,  larala-la  ; 

Oh  hone,  how  he  handled  the  drone, 

And  then  such  sweet  music  he  blew — 

’Twould  have  melted  the  heart  of  a stone. 

“ Your  pipe,”  says  I,  “ Paddy,  so  neatly  comes  over  me, 
Naked  I’ll  wander  wherever  it  blows, 

And  if  that  my  father  should  try  to  discover  me, 

Sure  it  won’t  be  by  describing  my  clothes : 

E or  the  music  I hear  now, 

Takes  hold  of  my  ear,  now, 

And  leads  me  all  over  the  world  by  the  nose.” 

So  I followed  the  bagpipes  so  sweet, 

And  sung,  as  I leap’d  like  a frog, 

‘ 1 Adieu  to  my  family  seat, 

So  pleasantly  plac’d  in  a bog.” 

With  my,  &c. 

Full  five  years  I followed  him,  nothing  could  sunder  us, 

Till  he  one  morning  had  taken  a sup, 

And  slipp’d  from  a bridge  in  a river,  light  under  us, 

Souse  to  the  bottom,  just  like  a blind  pup : 

I roar’d  and  I bawl’d  out 
And  lustily  called  out, 

il  Oh,  Paddy,  my  jew’l ! don’t  you  mean  to  come  up  ?” 

He  was  dead  as  a nail  in  a door. 

Poor  Paddy  was  laid  on  the  shelf, 

So  I took  up  his  pipes  on  the  shore, 

And  now  I’ve  set  up  for  myself. 

With  my  farala,  larala-la  ; 

Och,  may  be  I haven’t  the  knack 
To  play  faralla,  larala-la, 

Aye,  and  bubberoo,  dideroo,  whack. 

'flus  was  a popular  song  some  half-century  ago,  and  I have  heard  that  it  was  a favourite 
one  among  those  of  the  once-celebrated  “ Jack  Johnson,”  or,  as  he  was  often  called,  “ Irish 
Johnson.” 


THE  LOW-BACKED  CAR. 

Samuel  Lover.  From  “ Songs  and  Ballads.” 

WiiEiSr  first  I saw  sweet  Peggy, 

’Twas  on  a market  day, 

A low-backed  car  sbe  drove,  and  sat 
Upon  a truss  of  hay ; 

But  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass, 
And  decked  with  flowers  of  Spring, 

No  fiow’r  was  there  that  could  compare 
With  the  blooming  girl  I sing. 

As  she  sat  in  the  low-backed  car — 

The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  asked  for  the  toll, 

But  just  rubbed  his  owld  poll 
And  looked  after  the  low-backed  car. 

In  battle’s  wild  commotion, 

The  proud  and  mighty  Mars, 

With  hostile  scythes,  demands  his  tithes 
Of  death — in  warlike  cars ; 

While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

Has  darts  in  her  bright  eye, 

That  knock  men  down,  in  the  market  town, 
As  right  and  left  they  fiy — 


138 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


While  she  sits  in  her  low-hacked  car, 

Than  battle  more  dangerous  far — 

For  the  doctor’s  art 
Cannot  cure  the  heart 
That  is  hit  from  that  low-backed  car. 

Sweet  Peggy,  round  her  car,  sir, 

Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 

But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters 
By  far  out-number  these  ; 

While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

Just  like  a turtle  dove, 

Well  worth  the  cage,  I do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  love  ! 

While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 

The  lovers  come  near  and  far, 

And  envy  the  chicken 
That  Peggy  is  pickin’, 

As  she  sits  in  the  low-backed  car. 

0,  I’d  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 

. Than  a coach-and-four  and  goold  galore  * 

And  a lady  for  my  bride ; 

For  the  lady  would  sit  forninstf  me, 

On  a cushion  made  with  taste, 

While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me 
With  my  arm  around  her  waist — • 

While  we  drove  in  the  low-backed  car, 

To  be  married  by  Father  Maher,  | 

Oh,  my  heart  would  beat  high 
At  her  glance  and  her  sigh — 

Though  it  beat  in  a low-backed  car. 

* In  plenty.  f Before. 

% In  defence  of  my  rhyme,  I must  tell  English  readers  that  this  name  is  pronounced 
if  written,  Mar. 


THE  SPPvIG  OF  SHILLELAH. 

Edward  Ltsaght. 

Oh  ! love  is  the  soul  of  a neat  Irishman, 

He  loves  all  that  is  lovely,  loves  all  that  he  can, 

With  his  sprig  of  Shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green ! 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


139 


His  heart  is  good-humoured,  ’tis  honest  and  sound, 

No  envy  or  malice  is  there  to  he  found ; 

He  courts  and  he  marries,  he  drinks  and  he  fights, 

For  love,  all  for  love,  for  in  that  he  delights, 

With  his  sprig  of  Shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green ! 

Who  has  e’er  had  the  luck  to  see  Donnybrook  Fair  ? 

An  Irishman,  all  in  his  glory,  is  there, 

With  his  sprig  of  Shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green! 

His  clothes  spick  and  span  new,  without  e’er  a speck, 

A neat  Barcelona  tied  round  his  white  neck  ; 

He  goes  to  a tent,  and  he  spends  half-a-crown, 

He  meets  with  a friend,  and  for  love  knocks  him  down, 

With  his  sprig  of  Shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green ! 

At  evening  returning,  as  homeward  he  goes, 

His  heart  soft  with  whiskey,  his  head  soft  with  blows 
From  a sprig  of  Shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  ! 

He  meets  with  his  Sheelah,  who,  frowning  a smile, 

Cries,  “ Get  ye  gone,  Pat,”  yet  consents  all  the  while. 

To  the  priest  soon  they  go,  and  nine  months  after  that, 

A baby  cries  out  “ How  d’ye  do,  father  Pat, 

With  your  sprig  of  Shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green?” 

Bless  the  country,  say  I,  that  gave  Patrick  his  birth, 

Bless  the  land  of  the  oak,  and  its  neighbouring  earth, 

Where  grow  the  Shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green ! 

May  the  sons  of  the  Thames,  the  Tweed,  and  the  Shannon, 
Drub  the  foes  who  dare  plant  on  our  coniines  a cannon  ; 

United  and  happy,  at  Loyalty’s  shrine, 

May  the  Bose  and  the  Thistle  long  flourish  and  twine 

Bound  the  sprig  of  Shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green  ! 

This  song  was  once  very  popular,  and  Sir  Jonah  Barrington,  in  his  amusing  “ Personal 
Sketches  of  His  Own  Times,”  thinks  it  worthy  of  this  especial  notice : — “It  is  admirably  and 
truly  descriptive  of  the  low  Irish  character,  and  never  was  that  class  so  well  depicted  in  so 
few  words.”  This  praise  the  song  certainly  does  not  deserve.  It  is  based  rather  on  the 
conventional  Irish  songs  of  the  time,  than  drawn  from  life — but,  as  having  enjoyed  a certain 
reputation,  within  the  memory  of  the  living,  it  must  appear  in  a national  collection  of  this 
present  time.  But  there  are  many  in  this  volume  more  comic,  more  witty,  and  more 
Irish  in  every  respect ; and  it  is  pleasing  to  find  that  the  true  comic  character  of  the  Irish 
people  has  been,  since  Lysaght’s  time,  much  better  given,  and  much  better  received. 
As  Mr.  Lysaglit  elsewhere  gets  full  credit  for  his  merits,  there  is  the  less  hesitation  in 
saying,  here,  that  this  song  is  not  worthy  of  his  reputation. 


140 


CONYIYIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


THE  HERO  OF  BALLINACRAZY, 

When  I lived  in  sweet  Ballinacrazy,  dear, 

The  girls  were  all  bright  as  a daisy,  dear ; 

When  I gave  them  a smack,  they  whispered,  good  lack ! 

And  cried,  Baddy,  now  can’t  you  he  aisy,  dear. 

First  I married  Miss  Dolly  O’Daisy,  dear,  • 

She  had  two  swivel  eyes,  wore  a jazey,  dear ; 

Then  to  fat  Miss  Malone,  weighing  seventeen  stone ; 

Then  to  lanthorn-jaw’d  skinny  O’ Crazy,  dear. 

Then  I married  Miss  Dorothy  Taisy,  dear, 

A toast  once  in  Ballinacrazy,  dear  ; 

Her  left  leg  was  good,  hut  its  fellow  was  wood, 

And  she  hopped  like  a duck  round  a daisy,  dear. 

Then  I married  her  sister,  Miss  Taisy,  dear, 

But  she  turned  out  so  idle  and  lazy,  dear, 

That  I took  from  the  peg  my  deceased  lady’s  leg, 

For  to  leather  the  live  one  when  lazy,  dear. 

Then  I picked  up  rich  old  Mother  Hazy,  dear, 

She’d  a cough,  and  employ’d  Dr.  Blazy,  dear, 

But  some  drops  that  he  gave,  dropt  her  into  her  grave, 

And  her  cash  very  soon  made  me  aisy,  dear. 

Then  says  I to  old  Father  O’Mazy,  dear, 

“ Don’t  my  weddings  and  funerals  plase  ye,  dear?” 

“ Oh !”  says  he, 1 1 you  blackguard,  betwixt  church  and  churchyard, 
Sure,  you  never  will  let  me  be  aisy,  dear.” 

Oh,  ladies,  I live  but  to  plase  ye,  dear, 

I’m  the  hero  of  Ballinacrazy,  dear ; 

I’ll  marry  you  all,  lean,  fat,  short,  and  tall, 

One  after  the  other  to  plase  ye,  dear. 

The  name  of  the  author  of  this  lively  lyric  is  unknown  to  fame.  What  a capacity  for 
matrimony  he  invests  his  hero  with ! Such  a fellow  must  have  died  of  enlargement  of  the 
heart.  Moore,  in  one  of  his  early  lyrics,  says — 

“ I’m  going  to  toast  ev’ry  nymph  of  my  soul  to  you. 

And,  on  my  soul,  I’m  in  love  with  them  all ! ” 

Cut  the  Ballinacrazy  lad  goes  far  beyond — he  marries  them  all.  Colman,  in  “ Bluebeard,’* 
makes  Ibrahim  say,  “ Praise  be  to  the  wholesome  law  of  Mahomet,  which  stinted  a Turk 
to  four  at  a time:”  Ballinacrazy  outdoes  Constantinople  and  the  Grand  Signior.  This 
fellow  was  not  on  the  best  terms  with  his  wives  either  ,•  matrimony,  with  him,  seems  to 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


141 


have  been  a sort  of  domestic  “ war  of  succession.”  He  appears  somewhat  in  the  predica- 
ment of  that  man  brought  up  before  the  magistrate  on  a charge  of  polygamy,  who,  when 
asked  by  his  worship  what  could  have  induced  him  to  marry  so  many  women,  replied 
that  “ he  was  looking  for  a good  one,  and  didn't  find  her  after  all.” 


THE  MAH  FOR  GALWAY. 

Chables  Levee. 

To  drink  a toast, 

A proctor  roast, 

Or  bailiff,  as  tbe  case  is ; 

To  kiss  your  wife, 

Or  take  your  life 

At  ten  or  fifteen  paces ; 

To  keep  game  cocks,  to  hunt  the  fox, 

To  drink  in  punch  the  Solway, 

With  debts  galore,  but  fun  far  more  ; 

Oh,  that’s  “ the  man  for  Galway.” 

With  debts,  &c. 


The  King  of  Oude 
Is  mighty  proud, 

And  so  were  onest  the  Caysars ; 

But  ould  Giles  Eyre 
Would  make  them  stare, 

Av  he  had  them  with  the  Blazers.* 

To  the  divil  I fling  ould  Runjeet  Sing, 

He’s  only  a prince  in  a small  way, 

And  knows  nothing  at  all  of  a six-foot  wall ; 
Oh,  he’d  never  “ do  for  Galway.” 

With  debts,  &c. 

Ye  think  the  Blakes 
Are  no  “ great  shakes 

They’re  all  his  blood  relations  ; 

And  the  Bodkins  sneeze 
At  the  grim  Chinese, 

For  they  come  from  the  Phenaycians. 
So  fill  to  the  brim,  and  here’s  to  him 
Who’d  drink  in  punch  the  Solway ; 

With  debts  galore,  but  fun  far  more  ; 

Oh ! that’s  “ the  man  for  Galway.” 

With  debts,  &c. 


* This  generally  implies  the  arbitrement  of  the  "duello,”  blazers  being  a figurative  term 
for  pistols;  but  in  the  present  case,  if  I remember  rightly,  the  Blazers  allude  to  a very 
break-neck  pack  of  hounds,  so  called. 


142 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


LEAVE  US  A LOCK  OF  YOUR  HAIR. 

J.  F.  Waller,  LL.D.  Air,  “ The  Low-backed  Car.” 

u The  night  is  fresh  and  clear,  love, 

The  birds  are  in  their  bowers, 

And  the  holy  light 
Of  the  moon  falls  bright 
On  the  beautiful  sleeping  dowers. 

Oh  ! Nora,  are  you  waking  ? 

Or  don’t  you  hear  me  spalling  ? 

You  know  my  heart  is  breaking 
For  the  love  of  you,  Nora  dear. 

Ah!  why  don’t  you  speak,  Mavrone  ? 

Sure  I think  that  you’re  made  of  stone, 
Just  like  Venus  of  old, 

All  so  white  and  so  cold, 

But  no  morsel  of  desh  or  hone. 

“ There’s  not  a soul  astir,  love, 

No  sound  falls  on  the  ear, 

But  that  rogue  of  a breeze 
That’s  whispering  the  trees 
Till  they  tremble  all  through  with  fear. 
Ah ! them  happy  dowers  that’s  creeping 
To  your  window  where  you’re  sleeping, 
Sure  they're  not  chid  for  peeping 
At  your  beauties,  my  Nora  dear. 

You’ve  the  heart  of  a Turk,  by  my  soicl , 
To  leave  me  perched  here  like  an  owl ; 

’Tis  treatment  too  bad, 

For  a true-hearted  lad, 

To  he  sarved  like  a desolate  fowl. 

i6  You  know  the  vow  you  made,  love — 

You  know  we  dxed  the  day; 

And  here  I’m  now 
To  claim  that  vow, 

And  carry  my  bride  away  ; 

So,  Nora,  don’t  be  staying 
For  weeping,  or  for  praying — 

There's  danger  in  delaying — - 

Sure  maybe  I’d  change  my  mind ; 

For  you  know  I’m  a bit  of  a rake, 

And  a tride  might  tempt  me  to  break 

Faix,  but  for  your  blue  eye, 

I’ve  a notion  to  try 

What  a sort  of  ould  maid  you’d  make.” 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


143 


6(  Oh ! Dermot,  win  me  not,  love, 

To  he  your  bride  to-night : 

How  could  I bear 
A mother’s  tear, 

A father’s  scorn  and  slight? 

So,  Dermot,  cease  your  sueing — 

Don’t  work  your  Nora’s  ruin, 

’Twould  be  my  sore  undoing, 

If  you’re  found  at  my  window,  dear.” 

“ Ah ! for  shame  with  your  foolish  alarms — 

Just  drop  into  your  own  Dermot’ s arms  : 

Don’t  mind  looking  at  all 
For  your  cloak  or  shawl — 

^hey  were  made  but  to  smother  your  charms.” 

And  now  a dark  cloud  rising 
Across  the  moon  is  cast, 

The  lattice  opes, 

And  anxious  hopes 
Make  Dermot’s  heart  beat  fast: 

And  soon  a form  entrancing, — 

With  arms  and  fair  neck  glancing, — 

Half  shrinking,  half  advancing, 

Steps  light  on  the  lattice  sill ; 

When — a terrible  arm  in  the  air 
Clutched  the  head  of  the  lover  all  bare, 

And  a voice,  with  a scoff, 

Cried,  as  Dermot  made  off, 

“ Won’t  you  leave  its  a lock  of  your  hair?” 


A SUP  OF  GOOD  WHISKEY. 

A sdp  of  good  whiskey  will  make  you  glad ; 

Too  much  of  the  creatur’  will  make  you  mad  ; 

If  you  take  it  in  reason,  ’twill  make  you  wise  ; 

If  you  drink  to  excess,  it  will  close  up  your  eyes  : 
Yet  father  and  mother, 

And  sister  and  brother, 

They  all  take  a sup  in  their  turn. 

Some  preachers  will  tell  you  that  whiskey  is  bad ; 
I think  so  too, — if  there’s  none  to  be  had ; 
Teetotalers  bid  you  drink  none  at  all ; 

But,  while  1 can  get  it,  a fig  for  them  all ! 

Both  layman  and  brother, 

In  spite  of  this  pother, 

Will  all  take  a sup  in  their  turn. 


144 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


Some  doctors  will  tell  you,  ’twill  hurt  your  health 
The  justice  will  say,  ’twill  reduce  your  wealth ; 
Physicians  and  lawyers  both  do  agree, 

When  your  money’s  all  gone,  they  can  get  no  fee. 
Yet  surgeon  and  doctor, 

And  lawyer  and  proctor, 

Will  all  take  a sup  in  their  turn. 

If  a soldier  is  drunk  on  his  duty  found, 

He  to  the  three-legged-horse  is  hound, 

In  the  face  of  his  regiment  obliged  to  strip  ; 

But  a noggin  will  soften  the  nine-tailed  whip. 

Tor  serjeant  and  drummer, 

And  likewise  His  Honour, 

Will  all  take  a sup  in  their  turn. 

The  Turks  who  arrived  from  the  Porte  sublime, 
All  told  us  that  drinking  was  held  a great  crime  ; 
Yet,  after  their  dinner  away  they  slunk, 

And  tippled,  so  sly,  till  they  got  quite  drunk. 

For  Sultan  and  Crommet, 

And  even  Mahomet, 

They  all  take  a sup  in  their  turn. 

The  Quakers  will  bid  you  from  drink  abstain, 

By  yea  and  by  nay  they  will  make  it  plain ; 

But  some  of  the  broad-brims  will  get  the  stuff. 
And  tipple  away  till  they’ve  tippled  enough. 

For  Stiff-back  and  Steady, 

And  Solomon’s  lady, 

Will  all  take  a sup  in  their  turn. 

The  Germans  do  say  they  can  drink  the  most, 

The  French  and  Italians  also  do  boast : 

Ould  Ireland’s  the  country  (for  all  their  noise) 

For  generous  drinking  and  hearty  boys. 

There  each  jovial  fellow 
Will  drink  till  he’s  mellow, 

And  take  off  his  glass  in  his  turn. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


145 


I WAS  THE  BOY  FOR  BEWITCHING  THEM. 

I was  the  boy  for  bewitching  them, 

Whether  good  humour’d  or  coy ; 

All  cried,  when  I was  beseeching  them, 

“ Do  what  you  will  with  me,  joy.” 

“ Daughters  be  cautious  and  steady,” 

Mothers  would  cry  out  for  fear — • 
u Won’t  you  take  care  now  of  Teddy, 

Oh!  he’s  the  divil,  my  dear.” 

For  I was  the  boy  for  bewitching  them. 

Whether  good  humour’d  or  coy  ; 

All  cried  when  I was  beseeching  them, 

“ Do  what  you  will  with  me,  joy.” 

From  every  quarter  I gather’d  them, 

Yery  few  rivals  had  I ; 

If  I found  any  I leather’d  them, 

And  that  made  them  look  mighty  shy. 

Pat  Mooney,  my  Shelah  once  meeting, 

I twigg’d  him  beginning  his  clack — 

Says  he  “at  my  heart  I’ve  a beating,” 

Says  I “then  have  one  at  your  back.” 

For  I was  the  boy,  &c. 

Many  a lass  that  would  fly  away 
When  other  wooers  but  spoke, 

Once  if  I looked  her  a die-away 
There  was  an  end  of  the  joke. 

Beauties,  no  matter  how  cruel, 

Hundreds  of  lads  though  they’d  crost, 

When  I came  nigh  to  them,  jewel, 

They  melted  like  mud  in  the  frost. 

For  I was  the  boy,  &c. 


NOW  CAN’T  YOU  BE  AISY? 

Chables  Leveb.  From  “Charles  O’Malley.” 

Air,  “ Arrah,  Katty,  now  can’t  you  be  aisy  ?” 

On ! what  stories  I’ll  tell  when  my  sodgering’s  o’er, 
And  the  gallant  fourteenth  is  disbanded  ; 

Not  a drill  nor  parade  will  I hear  of  no  more, 

When  safely  in  Ireland  landed. 

With  the  blood  that  I spilt — the  Frenchmen  I kilt, 
I’ll  drive  all  the  girls  half  crazy ; 

And  some  ’cute  one  will  cry,  with  a wink  of  her  eye, 
“ Mr.  Free,  now — why  can’t  you  be  aisy  ?” 

8 


146 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


I’ll  tell  how  we  routed  the  squadrons  in  fight, 

And  destroyed  them  all  at  “ Talavera,” 

And  then  I’ll  just  add  how  we  finished  the  night, 

In  learning  to  dance  the  “ Bolera 
How  by  the  moonshine  we  drank  raal  wine, 

And  rose  next  day  fresh  as  a daisy ; 

Then  some  one  will  cry,  with  a look  mighty  sly, 

“ Arrah,  Mickey — now  can’t  you  he  aisy  ?” 

I’ll  tell  how  the  nights  with  Sir  Arthur  we  spent, 
Around  a big  fire  in  the  air  too, 

Or  may  be  enjoying  ourselves  in  a tent, 

Exactly  like  Donnybrook  fair  too ; 

How  he’d  call  out  to  me — “ pass  the  wine,  Mr.  Free, 
For  you’re  a man  never  is  lazy !” 

Then  some  one  will  cry,  with  a wink  of  her  eye, 
u Arrah,  Mickey  dear — can’t  you  be  aisy?” 

I’ll  tell,  too,  the  long  years  in  fighting  we  passed, 

Till  Mounseer  asked  Bony  to  lead  him ; 

And  Sir  Arthur,  grown  tired  of  glory  at  last, 

Begged  of  one  Mickey  Free  to  succeed  him. 

But,  “ acushla,”  says  I,  “the  truth  is,  I’m  shy! 

There’s  a lady  in  Ballynacrazy ! 

And  I swore  on  the  book — ” she  gave  me  a look, 

And  cried,  “ Mickey — now  can’t  you  be  aisy  ?” 



ONE  BOTTLE  MORE. 

Assist  me,  ye  lads,  who  have  hearts  void  of  guile, 

To  sing  out  the  praises  of  ould  Ireland’s  isle ; 

Where  true  hospitality  opens  the  door, 

And  friendship  detains  us  for  one  bottle  more — 

One  bottle  more,  arrah,  one  bottle  more ; 

And  friendship  detains  us  for  one  bottle  more. 

Old  England,  your  taunts  on  our  country  forbear ; 

With  our  bulls  and  our  brogues  we  are  true  and  sincere  \ 
For  if  but  one  bottle  remains  in  our  store, 

We  have  generous  hearts  to  give  that  bottle  more. 

One  bottle  more,  &c. 

At  Candy’s,  in  Church-street,  I’ll  sing  of  a set 
♦ Of  six  Irish  blades  who  together  had  met ; 

Four  bottles  a-piece  made  us  call  for  our  score, 

And  nothing  remain’d  but  just  one  bottle  more. 

One  bottle  more,  &C» 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


147 


Our  bill  being  paid,  we  were  loth  to  depart, 

For  friendship  had  grappled  each  man  by  the  heart, 

Where  the  least  touch,  you  know,  makes  an  Irishman  roar, — 
And  the  whack  from  shillelah  brought  six  bottles  more. 

Six  bottles  more,  &c. 

Swift  Phoebus  now  shone  through  our  window  so  bright, 

Quite  happy  to  view  his  glad  children  of  light ; 

So  we  parted  with  hearts  neither  sorry  nor  sore, 
lie  solving  next  night  to  drink  twelve  bottles  more. 

Twelve  bottles  more,  &c. 

I have  reason  to  believe  this  song  the  best  part  of  a hundred  years,  if  not  quite  a century 
old. — It  belongs  to  the  deep-drinking  days  of  our  grandfathers. 


TIIE  IRISH  DUEL. 

Potatoes  grow  in  Limerick,  and  beef  at  Ballymore, 

And  buttermilk  is  beautiful, — but  that  you  knew  before  ; 

And  Irishmen  iove  pretty  girls,  and  none  could  love  more  true 
Than  little  Paddy  Whackmacrack  lov’d  Kate  O’Donohoe, 

With  his  fal  de  ral,  fal  de  ral,  de  ral  de  ral,  de  ra. 

Now  Katty  M as  as  neat  a lass  as  ever  tripp’d  the  sod, 

And  Paddy  bore  with  equal  grace  a musket  or  a hod  ; 

With  trowel  and  with  bayonet,  by  turns  the  hero  chose, 

To  build  up  houses  for  his  friends,  and  then  to  charge  his  foes, 
With  his  fal  de  ral,  &c. 

When  gentlepeople  fall  in  love,  Love’s  never  at  a loss 
To  find  some  ugly  customers  their  happiness  to  cross  ; 

And  Paddy,  too,  some  trouble  found,  all  from  a rival  swain, 
Who  kept  the  Cat  and  Cucumber  in  Cauliflower-lane  ; 

With  his  fal  de  ral,  &c. 

This  youth  was  named  Mackirkincroft,  a very  dapper  elf, 
Whose  clothes  they  fitted  nately,  for  he  made  them  all  himself : 
A tailor  blade  he  was  by  trade,  of  natty  boys  the  broth, 
Because  he  always  cut  his  coat  according  to  his  cloth. 

With  his  fal  de  ral,  &c. 

But  Paddy  knew  the  feelings  of  a gentleman  it  hurts, 

To  find  another  ungenteeUy  sticking  to  his  skirts  ; 

So  sent  a,  challenge  without  fear ; for  though  he  was  not  rich, 
He  call’d  himself  a gintleman,  and  still  behav’d  as  sich. 

With  his  fal  de  ral,  &c. 


148 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


Mackirky,  too,  good  manners  knew,  for  lie,  as  it  appears, 

To  Paddy  wrote  for  leave  that  lie  might  cut  off  both  his  ears ! 
Says  Pat  to  that,  in  style  polite,  as  well  yon  may  suppose, 

“ My  ears  you’re  very  welcome  to,  but  first  I’ll  pull  your  nose.” 
With  his  fal  de  ral,  &c. 

The  when  and  where  were  settled  fair,  when  Pat,  as  bold  as  brass, 
Cried,  “you  know  what  we  fight  about;”  Mackirky  cried,  “a-las 
And  then  in  haste,  and  not  to  waste  such  very  precious  time, 

One  prim’d  without  a loading,  t’other  loaded  without  prime. 

With  his  fal  de  ral,  &c. 

Then  back  to  back  they  stood,  good  lack,  to  measure  yards  a score ; 
Mackirkin croft  such  honest  measure  never  gave  before  ; 

He  walk’d  so  light,  that  out  of  sight  full  fairly  he  was  seen, 

And  Paddy  shot  a finger-post  some  half  a mile  between. 

With  his  fal  de  ral,  &c. 

NowPat  and  Kate,  soon  after  that,  in  wedlock’s  bands  were  join’d, 
Mackirky  he  kept  walking  on,  and  never  look’d  behind; 

And,  till  this  day,  his  ghost,  they  say  (for  he  of  love  expir’d), 
Keeps  walking  round  the  finger-post  at  which  bold  Paddy  fired. 

With  his  fal  de  ral,  &c. 


LOONEY  MACTWOLTER. 

From  the  farce  of  “ The  Review.”  George  Colhan,  “the  younger,” 

Oh,  whack ! Cupid’s  a manikin : 

Smack  on  the  back  he  hit  me  a poulter ; 

Good  lack  ! Judy  O’Flanagan, 

Dearly  she  loves  nate  Looney  Mactwolter, 

Judy’s  my  darling,  my  kisses  she  suffers, 

She’s  an  heiress,  that’s  clear, 

For  her  father  sells  beer  ; 

He  keeps  the  sign  of  the  Cow  and  the  Snuffers. 

Oh  ! she’s  so  smart, 

From  my  heart 
I can’t  bolt  her ! 

Oh,  whack!  Judy  O’ Flanagan; 

She  is  the  girl  for  Looney  Mactwolter. 

Ochone  ! good  news,  I need  a bit ; 

We’d  correspond,  but  learning  would  choke  her! 
Mavrone ! I cannot  read  a bit ; 

And  Judy  can’t  tell  a pen  from  a poker. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


149 


Judy’s  so  constant  I’ll  never  forsake  her  ! 

She’s  as  true  as  the  moon, 

Only  one  afternoon 

I caught  her  a coorting  a humpback’d  shoemaker, 
Oh ! she’s  so  smart, 

From  my  heart 
I can’t  bolt  her  ; 

Oh,  whack  ! Judy  O’Flanagan ; 

She  is  the  girl  for  Looney  Maetwolter. 


Here  is  one  of  the  many  stage  songs  made  for  that  extraordinary  caricature,  the  stage 
Irishman,  by  one  not  “native  to  the  manner  born.”  With  all  Colman’s  talent,  he  makes 
poor  work  of  the  character  of  an  Irishman,  or  of  an  Irish  song— always  excepting  his  song 
of  “Savourneen  Deelish”  (given  in  this  collection) ; but,  in  that,  he  does  not  attempt  pecu- 
liarity of  national  character,  or  national  idiom ; and  confining  himself,  merely,  to  the 
expression  of  natural  emotion,  he  produced  a song  of  great  excellence. 


OH!  ONCE  WE  WERE  ILLIGANT  PEOPLE.. 

From  “Charles  O’Malley,”  by  Chables  Levee. 

Oh  ! once  we  were  illigant  people, 

Though  we  now  live  in  cabins  of  mud ; 

Ar  1 1 1 11  ' “ teeple 


My  father  was  then  king  of  Connaught, 

My  grandaunt  viceroy  of  Tralee ; 

But  the  Sassenach  came,  and,  signs  on  it  1 
The  divil  an  acre  have  we. 

The  least  of  us  then  were  all  earls, 

And  j e wels  we  wore  without  name  ; 

We  drank  punch  out  of  rubies  and  pearls — 
Mr.  Petrie*  can  tell  you  the  same. 

But,  except  some  turf  mould  and  potatoes, 
There’s  nothing  our  own  we  can  call : 

And  the  English — bad  luck  to  them! — hate  us, 
Because  we’ve  more  fun  than  them  all  !f 


* Now  Dr.  Petrie.  The  song  was  written  by  my  esteemed  friend,  the  author,  before  my 
other  esteemed  friend,  the  distinguished  antiquary  alluded  to,  had  the  academic  honour  of 
LL.D.  appended  to  his  name— a name  which  has  laid  the  alphabet  under  many  more  con- 
tributions of  the  same  sort. 

t This  is  a capital  idea,  and  most  characteristic  of  the  queer  fellow  that  utters  it,  Mister 
“Mickey  Free,”J  to  whose  acquaintance  I would  recommend  the  reader— if  there  be  any 
who  does  not  know  him  already.  For  my  own  part  I will  add  a wish  that  all  the  rivalries 
between  the  sister  isles,  for  the  future,  may  be  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness— in  obtaining 
what  shall  give  cause  to  laugh  the  most. 


t Vide  “ Charles  O’Malley.” 


150 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


My  grandaunt  was  niece  to  St.  Kevin, 

That’s  the  reason  my  name’s  Mickey  Free  I 
Priest’s  nieces — hut  sure  he’s  in  Heaven, 

And  his  failins  is  nothin’  to  me. 

And  we  still  might  get  on  without  doctors, 

If  they’d  let  the  ould  island  alone ; 

And  if  purplemen,  priests,  and  tithe-proctors 
Were  crammed  down  the  great  gun  of  Athlone. 


MR.  BARNEY  MAGUIRE’S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  CORONATION.* 

Air,  “The  Groves  of  Blarney.” 

Ocir ! the  Coronation ! what  celebration 
For  emulation  can  with  it  compare  ? 

When  to  W estminster  the  Royal  Spinster, 

And  the  Duke  of  Leinster,  all  did  repair ! 

’Twas  there  you’d  see  the  New  Polishemen 
Making  a skrimmage  at  half- after  four, 

And  the  Lords  and  Ladies,  and  the  Miss  O’Gradys 
All  standing  round  before  the  abbey  door. 

Their  pillows  scorning,  that  self-same  morning, 

Themselves  adorning,  all  by  candle-light, 

With  roses  and  lilies,  and  daffy-down-dillies, 

And  goold,  and  jewels,  and  rich  di’monds  bright. 

And  then  approaches  five  hundred  coaches, 

With  Gineral  Dullbeak. — Och  ! ’twas  mighty  fine 
To  see  how  aisy  bould  Corporal  Casey, 

With  his  swoord  drawn,  prancing,  made  them  keep  the  line. 

Then  the  Gun’s  alarums,  and  the  King  of  Arums, 

All  in  his  Garters  and  his  Clarence  shoes, 

Opening  the  massy  doors  to  the  bould  Ambassydors, 

The  Prince  of  Potboys,  and  great  haythen  Jews  : 

’Twould  have  made  them  crazy  to  see  Esterhazy, 

All  jewels  from  his  jasey  to  his  di’mond  boots, 

With  Alderman  Harmer,  and  that  sweet  charmer, 

The  female  heiress,  Miss  Anja-ly  Coutts.  % 

And  Wellington  walking  with  his  swoord  drawn,  talking 
To  Hill  and  Hardinge,  heroes  of  great  fame  ; 

And  Sir  De  Lacy,  and  the  Duke  Dalmasey, 

(They  call’d  him  So  wit  afore  he  changed  his  name,) 
Themselves  presading  Lord  Melbourne,  lading 
The  Queen,  the  darling,  to  her  royal  chair, 

And  that  fine  ould  fellow,  the  Duke  of  Pell-Mello, 

The  Queen  of  Portingal’s  Chargy-de-fair. 

* Prom  “ The  Ingoldsby  Legends.” 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


151 


Then  the  noble  Prussians,  likewise  the  Russians, 

In  fine  laced  jackets  with  their  goolden  cuffs, 

And  the  Bavarians,  and  the  proud  Hungarians, 

And  Everythingarians  all  in  furs  and  mufi's. 

Then  Misthur  Spaker,  with  Misthur  Pays  the  Quaker, 

All  in  the  Gallery  you  might  persave  ; 

But  Lord  Brougham  was  missin’,  and  gone  a fishin’, 

Only  crass  Lord  Essex  would  not  give  him  lave. 

There  was  Baron  Alten  himself  exaltin’, 

And  Prince  Yon  Swartzenberg,  and  many  more, 

Och  ! I’d  be  bother’d  and  entirely  smother’d 
To  tell  the  half  of  ’em  was  to  the  fore  ; 

With  the  sweet  Peeresses,  in  their  prowns  and  dresses, 

And  Aldermanesses,  and  the  Board  of  Works ; 

But  Mehemet  Ali  said,  quite  ginteelly, 

“ I’d  be  proud  to  see  the  likes  among  the  Turks!” 

Then  the  Queen,  Heaven  bless  her  ! och ! they  did  dress  her 
In  her  purple  garmints,  and  her  goolden  Crown  ; 

Like  Venus  or  Hebe,  or  the  Queen  of  Sheby, 

With  eight  young  ladies  houlding  up  her  gown. 

Sure  ’twas  grand  to  see  her,  also  for  to  he-ar 
The  big  drums  bating,  and  the  trumpets  blow, 

And  Sir  George  Smart ! Oh  ! he  played  a Consarto, 

With  his  four-and-twenty  fiddlers  all  in  a row  ! 

Then  the  Lord  Archbishop  held  a goolden  dish  up, 

F or  to  resave  her  bounty  and  great  wealth, 

Saying,  “ Plase  your  Glory,  great  Queen  Yict-ory ! 

Ye’ll  give  the  Clargy  lave  to  dhrink  your  health !” 

Then  his  Riverence,  retrating,  discoorsed  the  mating, 

“ Boys  ! Here’s  your  Queen  ! deny  it  if  you  can ! 

And  if  any  bould  traitor,  or  infarior  craythur, 

Sneezes  at  that,  I’d  like  to  see  the  man  ! ” 

Then  the  Nobles  kneeling  to  the  Powers  appealing, 

“ Heaven  send  your  Majesty  a glorious  reign ! ” 

And  Sir  Claudius  Hunter  he  did  confront  her, 

All  in  his  scarlet  gown  and  goolden  chain. 

The  great  Lord  May’r  too,  sat  in  his  chair,  too, 

But  mighty  sarious,  looking  fit  to  cry, 

For  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  all  in  his  hurry 
Throwing  the  thirteens,  hit  him  in  the  eye. 

Then  there  was  preachin’,  and  good  store  of  speechin’, 

With  Dukes  and  Marquises  on  bended  knee  ; 

And  they  did  splash  her  with  raal  Macasshur, 

And  the  Queen  said,  “Ah ! then,  thank  ye  all  for  me !’%— 


152 


CONVIVIAL  AND  COMIC  SONGS. 


Then  the  trumpets  brayin’  , and  the  organ  playin’, 

And  sweet  trombones  with  their  silver  tones, 

But  Lord  liolle  was  rolling ; — ’twas  mighty  consoling 
To  think  his  Lordship  did  not  break  his  bones. 

Then  the  crames  and  cnsthard,  and  the  beef  and  musthard, 

All  on  the  tombstones  like  a poultherer’s  shop, 

With  lobsthers  and  white-bait,  and  other  sweet-mate, 

And  wine,  and  nagus,  and  Impayrial  Pop ! 

There  was  cakes  and  apples  in  all  the  Chapels, 

With  line  polonies,  and  rich  mellow  pears, 

Ocli ! the  Count  Yon  Strogonoff,  sure  he  got  prog  enough, 

The  sly  ould  Divil,  undernathe  the  stairs. 

Then  the  cannons  thunder’d,  and  the  people  wonder’d, 

Crying,  “ God  save  Yictoria,  our  Loyal  Gueen  !” 

Och ! if  myself  should  live  to  be  a hundred, 

Sure  its  the  proudest  day  I’ve  ever  seen ! 

And  now  I’ve  ended,  what  I pretended, 

This  narration  splendid  in  sweet  poe-thry, 

Ye  dear  be witcher  just  hand  the  pitcher, 

Faith,  its  myself  that’s  getting  mighty  dhry  ! 

This  admirable  imitation  of  an  Irish  rigmarole,  after  the  manner  of  “The  Groves  of 
Blarney,”  is  from  the  pen  of  a distinguished  Englishman,  the  late  Rev.  John  Barham, 
whose  facility  of  rhyming  reminds  one  of  that  great  master  of  rhymes,  Butler.  The  “ In- 
goldsby  Legends,”  whence  the  above  is  extracted,  abound  not  only  with  rhymes  of  equal 
and  even  superior  merit ; but  with  strange  odds  and  ends  of  queer  information,  given  with 
a racy  humour  and  felicity  of  expression  of  high  mark  indeed.  His  death  caused  a blank  in 
the  social  circle  that  must  long  continue  to  be  felt  by  all  those  who  had  the  privilege  of 
enjoying  his  society. 


03i e songs  in  this  section  might  have 
appeared,  without  question,  in  that 
devoted  to  the  Songs  of  the  Affections ; 
for  so  much  of  sentiment  occurs,  of 
necessity,  in  songs  whose  theme  is 
love,  that  it  is  not  always  an  easy 
matter  to  discriminate  between  the  absolute 
love- song  and  the  song  sentimental.  The  choice 
thus  devolving  on  the  editor  often  made  him 
feel  the  full  meaning  of  that  phrase  of  which 
disputants  sometimes  avail  themselves — “ a dis- 
tinction without  a difference and  he  makes 
this  remark  to  anticipate  any  critical  objection 
his  choice  may  he  open  to,  believing,  at  the  same  time,  that  as  long  as 
the  songs  are  good,  no  fault  will  he  found  with  their  location. 

8* 


154 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Among  songs  of  sentiment  are  to  be  found,  in  many  languages, 
some  of  the  most  charming  productions  of  the  lyre.  The  amatory 
strain  is  more  obvious  to,  and  is  probably  always  the  earliest  effort 
of,  the  lyric  poet ; — the  sentimental  song  requires  a higher  and  riper 
power ; for  it  may  be  affirmed  that  the  feelings  which  awake  and  are 
awakened  by  a love-song,  having  their  root  in  passion,  are  more 
readily  excited,  and  therefore  more  within  the  reach  of  the  poet  than 
those  responding  to  the  expression  of  sentiment.  Such  feelings  lie 
deeper,  or  are  more  mysteriously  interwoven  in  our  nature,  and 
hence  it  may  be  predicated  that  the  power  which  evokes  them  is 
more  subtle. 

A.nd  this  power  has  been  evinced,  in  a high  degree,  by  the  Irish. 
Moore  owes  his  brightest  fame  to  songs,  and  other  writings,  of 
the  sentimental  class,  and  though  we  cannot  present  any  of  them 
in  this  volume,  their  celebrity  is  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  reader  that 
too  much  is  not  claimed  in  the  assertion,  as  regards  Moore ; and 
some  specimens  that  follow  from  Griffin,  Mahony,  and  Mangan,  bear 
most  winning  evidence  in  support  of  the  assertion  as  regards  Ireland. 
“Old  Times,”  “The  Bells  of  Shandon,”  and  “Waiting  for  the  May,” 
are  of  the  highest  mark,  in  this  class  of  composition. 

I think  the  general  reader  would  expect  to  find  many  satirical 
sallies  in  the  works  of  Irish  writers ; but  fact  will  not  fulfil  the 
expectation.  It  is  commonly  remarked  how  read}^-witted  are  the 
Irish — how  quick  of  repartee — and  hence  might  arise  the  idea  that 
they  must  be  satirical.  The  truth,  however,  is,  that  Irish  wit  is 
fonder  of  moulding  itself  into  mirthful  than  angry  forms ; but,  if  in 
angry  mood,  the  Irish  are  fonder  of  sarcasm  and  irony  than  satire ; 
of  the  former  they  are  great  masters ; of  the  latter  they  have  shown 
themselves  capable,  by  cultivating  the  art;  but  it  does  not  seem  to  me 
to  be  indigenous,  and  the  few  examples  that  follow  support  this  view. 
Swift,  who  handled  satire  dexterously,  lived  much  in  England,  was 
the  intimate  friend  of  Pope,  that  great  master  of  the  art,  and  whose 
power,  in  this  respect,  influenced  the  literary  fashion  of  the  day,  to 
which  even  so  powerful  and  original  a mind  as  Swift’s  might  not 
have  been  insensible.  Goldsmith,  who  sometimes  indulged  in  a 
satirical  vein,  was  also  open,  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  and  the 
entire  of  his  literary  career,  to  exterior  influence  and  example.  In 
later  days,  Moore  displayed  much  satirical  power ; but  satire  was  not 
his  forte ; and  it  must  be  confessed  that  personal  feeling  and  party 
spirit  sometimes  lured  him  from  the  polished  height  of  satire  to 
betray  him  into  the  lampoon: — but  how  often  are  they  not  con- 
founded P 


MOEAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIEICAL  SONGS.  1<35 

Touching  the  moral  portion  of  the  text,  it  may  he  remarked  that 
moralizing,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  word,  is  not  often  the 
vein  of  lyric  writers,  and  a people  of  a temperament  notoriously 
lively  as  the  Irish,  would  be  less  expected  than  others  to  abound  in 
lyrics  of  that  fashion ; — it  would  almost  seem  out  of  nature : Shak- 
speare  makes  the  reflective  Jaques  say — 

“ When  I did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 

My  lungs  began  to  caw  like  chanticleer, 

That  fools  should  be  so  deep  contemplative.” 

He  looks  upon  it  as  ridiculous  that  a jester  (for  that  is  the  sense 
in  which  the  term  fool  must  he  taken  here)  should  turn  moralist ; 
and,  if  that  view  he  correct,  we  should  not  look  for  a preponderance 
of  the  moralizing  quality  among  the  sportive  lyrists  of  Ireland. 
Nevertheless,  a deep  tone  of  morality  will  he  found  in  some  of  the 
following  examples, — suggested  rather  than  preached: — and  it  is 
thus  that  it  should  he,  in  compositions  of  the  lighter  kind.  But,  for 
that  matter,  why  should  we  talk  specially  of  moral  songs  ? A moral 
may  he  extracted  from  songs  and  other  poetic  compositions  of  various 
classes.  As  Nature  provides  the  flower,  and  the  hee  extracts  the 
honey,  so  the  poet  gives  forth  forms  of  beauty  and  store  of  sweets 
and  the  office  of  the  bee  lies  in  the  reader. 


156 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


WHEN  FILLED  WITH  THOUGHTS  OF  LIFE’S  YOUNG  DAY. 

Gerald  Griffin. 

When  filled  with,  thoughts  cf  life’s  young  day, 

Alone  in  distant  climes  we  roam, 

And  year  on  year  has  rolled  away, 

Since  last  we  viewed  our  own  dear  home ; 

Oh,  then,  at  evening’s  silent  hour, 

In  chamber  lone  or  moonlight  bow’r, 

How  sad  on  memory’s  listening  ear 
Come  long-lost  voices  sounding  near ; 

Like  the  wild  chime  of  village  bells 
Heard  far  away  in  mountain  dells. 

But,  oh ! for  him  let  kind  hearts  grieve, 

His  term  of  youth  and  exile  o’er, 

Who  sees  in  life’s  declining  eve 
With  altered  eyes  his  native  shore  ! 

With  aching  heart  and  weary  brain, 

Who  treads  those  lonesome  scenes  again  ! 

And  backward  views  the  sunny  hours 
W hen  first  he  knew  those  ruined  bow’rs, 

And  hears  in  every  passing  gale 
Some  best  affection’s  dying  wail.* 

Oh,  say,  what  spell  of  power  serene 
Can  cheer  that  hour  of  sharpest  pain, 

And  turn  to  peace  the  anguish  keen, 

That  deeper  wounds,  because  in  vain  ? 

’Tis  not  the  thought  of  glory  won, 

Of  hoarded  gold  or  pleasure  gone, 

But  one  bright  course,  from  earliest  youth, 

Of  changeless  faith — unbroken  truth. 

These  turn  to  gold,  the  vapours  dun, 

That  close  on  life’s  descending  sun. 

* The  sadness  of  spirit  breathed  in  this  verse  seems  a reflex  of  his  own  emotions,  when 
we  remember  that  he  returned  to  Ireland  (after  having  made  a high  reputation)  not  in 
“life’s  declining  eve,”  but  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  and  retired  into  monastic  seclusion. 


ON  RETURNING  A RING  TO  A LADY. 

Right  Hon.  John  Philpot  Curran. 

Thou  emblem  of  faith — thou  sweet  pledge  of  a passion 
By  Heaven  reserved  for  a happier  than  me, — 

On  the  hand  of  my  fair  go  resume  thy  lov’d  station, 
Go  bask  in  the  beam  that  is  lavish’d  on  thee ! 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


157 


And  if,  some  past  scene  thy  remembrance  recalling, 

Hei  bosom  shall  rise  to  the  tear  that  is  falling, 

With  the  transport  of  love  may  no  anguish  combine, 

Be  her's  all  the  bliss,  and  the  suffering  all  mine!* 

Yet  say,  (to  thy  mistress  ere  yet  I restore  thee,) 

Oh,  say  why  thy  charm  so  indifferent  to  me  ? 

To  her  thou  art  dear, — then  should  I not  adore  thee  ? 

Can  the  heart  that  is  her’s  be  regardless  of  thee  ? 

But  the  eyes  of  a lover,  a friend,  or  a brother, 

Can  see  naught  in  thee  but  the  flame  of  another  ; 

On  me  then  thou’rt  lost ; as  thou  never  couldst  prove 
The  emblem  of  faith,  or  the  token  of  love. 

But,  ah ! had  the  ringlet  thou  lov’st  to  surround — 

Had  it  e’er  kissed  the  rose  on  the  cheek  of  my  dear, 

What  ransom  to  buy  thee  could  ever  be  found, 

Or  what  force  from  my  heart  thy  possession  could  tear  ? 

A mourner,  a suff’rer,  a wand’rer,  a stranger — 

In  sickness,  in  sadness,  in  pain,  and  in  danger, 

Next  my  heart  thou  shouldst  dwell  till  its  last  gasp  were  o’er, 
Then  together  we’d  sink — and  I’d  part  thee  no  more. 


* We  are  reminded  here  of  a line  of  Byron’s — 

“ Oh ! thine  be  the  gladness,  and  mine  be  the  guilt ! ” 

These  lines,  with  all  their  blemishes  of  execution,  particularly  in  the  four  first  lines  of 
the  second  verse,  are  so  tender,  so  passionate,  so  hopeless,  that  they  touch  the  heart : — 
they  acquire  an  additional  interest  when  it  is  remembered  how  cruelly  the  writer’s  married 
life  was  embittered. 


COULD  I HER  FAULTS  REMEMBER. 

Sheeidan-. 

Could  I her  faults  remember, 
Forgetting  every  charm, 

Soon  would  impartial  Reason 
The  tyrant  Love  disarm. 

But  when,  enraged,  I number 
Each  failing  of  her  mind, 

Love,  still,  suggests  each  beauty, 

And  sees,  while  Reason’s  blind. 


0,  MEMORY! 

From  the  Oratorio  of  “The  Captivity.’* 

Goldsmith.  Born,  1731.*  Died,  1774. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  at  Pallas. f in  the  county  of  Longford,  Ireland,  November  29, 
1731,  and  died  in  London,  April  4,  1774.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  few  extracts  can  be 
gathered  from  his  works,  suited  to  this  volume ; but,  happily,  there  cure  a few,  which  afford 
the  opportunity  of  enriching  our  register  of  bright  names  with  one  of  the  brightest  in 
the  annals  of  literature  ; and  as  his  slightest  productions  justify  the  celebrated  “ nullum 
quod  teiigit  non  ornavit,”  these  few  would  adorn  any  collection ; — but  still  they  are  far  from 
sufficiently  representing  the  intellectual  power  of  the  author  of  “ The  Traveller,”  “ The 
Deserted  Village,”  “ The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,”  and  “ She  Stoops  to  Conquer.” 

0,  memoey  ! thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain  ; 

To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain. 

Thou,  like  the  world,  the  oppress’d  oppressing, 

Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch’s  woe ! 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 

In  thee  must  ever  find  a foe. 

• Mr.  Forster,  in  his  Life  of  Goldsmith,  names  the  year  1728. 

t Three  odd  mistakes  are  made  in  a translation  of  Doctor  Johnson’s  Latin  epitaph  on 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


159 


Goldsmith,  given  in  one  of  the  numerous  small  editions  of  Goldsmith’s  Life  and  Works; — 
one  of  them  particularly  so ; — the  lines  in  the  original  stand  thus : — 

“ Natus  Hibernia  For neia  Lonfordiensis, 

In  loco  cui  nomen  Pallas.” 

The  translation  given,  is — 

“ He  was  born  in  the  Kingdom  of  Ireland, 

At  Ferns,  in  the  Province 
Of  Leinster , 

Where  Pallas  had  set  her  name.” 

The  translator  calling  Forney  Ferns,  Longford  Leinster , and  strangely  mistaking  the 
name  of  the  little  Irish  village,  Pallas,  for  that  of  the  goddess  of  wisdom  and  patroness 
of  learning. 


WHEN  YOUR  BEAUTY  APPEARS. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Pabneel.  Born,  1679.  Died,  1717. 

"When  your  beauty  appears, 

In  its  graces  and  airs, 

All  bright  as  an  angel  new  dropt  from  the  sky  ; 

At  distance  I gaze,  and  am  awed  by  my  fears, 

So  strangely  you  dazzle  my  eye ! 

But  when  without  art, 

Your  kind  thoughts  you  impart ; 

When  your  love  runs  in  blushes  through  every  vein ; 

When  it  darts  from  your  eyes,  when  it  pants  in  your  heart, 

Then  I know  you’re  a woman  again. 

“ There’s  a passion  and  pride 
In  our  sex,”  she  replied, 

“And,  thus  (might  I gratify  both),  I would  do  : 

Still  an  angel  appear  to  each  lover  beside, 

And  still  be  a woman,  to  you.” 

This  graceful  trifle  of  Dr.  Parnell  gives  but  the  occasion  of  noticing  another  bright  name 
among  the  poets  of  Ireland.  His  poem  of  “The  Hermit,”  alone,  would  have  made  his 
name  remembered  with  admiration.  His  poetical  works  were  considered  of  sufficient  value 
to  be  collected  and  published  by  Pope  in  1721.  Doctor  Johnson  praises  Parnell  for  the 
“easy  sweetness  of  his  diction;”  and  though  he  does  not  allow  that  he  “ravishes,’’ 
he  admits  that  “ he  always  delights.”  Dr.  Lempriere  classes  him  “ among  the  most  pious 
and  useful  poets  in  the  English  language,”  and  Goldsmith  seems  to  have  had  a similar 
sense  of  his  excellence,  by  the  eloquent  epitaph  which  follows. 


160 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


EPITAPH  OH  DR.  PARNELL. 

Goldsmith. 

This  tomb,*  inscribed  to  gentle  Parnell’s  name, 

May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame. 

What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 

That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure’s  flowery  way  ? 
Celestial  themes  confess’d  his  tuneful  aid, 

And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid. 

Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow, 

The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below : 

More  lasting  rapture  from  his  work  shall  rise, 

While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies. 

* Mr.  Peter  Cunningham,  in  his  edition  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Goldsmith,  says  the 
tomb,  here,  is  suppositional— a mere  poetic  privilege,  as  a means  of  recording  admiration. 


THE  SNOW. 

Samuel  Lover.  From  “Songs  and  Ballads.” 

An  old  man  sadly  said 
“ Where’s  the  snow 
That  fell  the  year  that’s  lied — 
Where’s  the  snow  r”’ 

As  fruitless  were  the  task, 

Of  many  a joy  to  ask, 

As  the  snow ! 

The  hope  of  airy  birth, 

Like  the  snow, 

Is  stain’d  on  reaching  earth, 

Like  the  snow  : 

While  ’tis  sparkling  in  the  ray 
’Tis  melting  fast  away — 

Like  the  snow. 

A cold  deceitful  thing 
Is  the  snow, 

Though  it  come  on  dove-like  wing — 
The  false  snow ! 

’Tis  but  rain  disguis’d  appears  : 

And  our  hopes  are  frozen  tears — 
Like  the  snow. 


THE  WOODS  OF  CAILLINO, 

Song  of  the  Irish  Emigrant  in  North  America. 

By  L.  N.  F. 

My  heart  is  heavy  in  my  breast — my  eyes  are  full  of  tears, 

My  memory  is  wandering  hack  to  long  departed  years — 

To  those  bright  days  long,  long  ago, 

When  nought  I dreamed  of  sordid  care,  of  worldly  woe — 

But  roved,  a gay,  light-hearted  hoy,  the  woods  of  Caillino. 

There,  in  the  spring  time  of  my  life,  and  spring  time  of  the  year, 
I’ve  watched  the  snow-drop  start  from  earth,  the  first  young  "buds 
appear ; 

The  sparkling  stream  o’er  pebbles  flow, 

The  modest  violet,  and  the  golden  primrose  blow, 

Within  thy  deep  and  mossy  dells,  beloved  Caillino  ! 

’Twas  there  I wooed  my  Mary  Dhuv,  and  won  her  for  my  bride, 

Who  bore  me  three  fair  daughters,  and  four  sons,  my  age’s  pride ; 
Though  cruel  fortune  was  our  foe, 

And  steeped  us  to  the  lips  in  bitter  want  and  woe, 

Yet  cling  our  hearts  to  those  sad  days  we  passed  near  Caillino! 


; 


162 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


At  length  by  misery  bowed  to  earth,  we  left  our  native  strand- — 

And  crossed  the  wide  Atlantic  to  this  free  and’  happy  land  ; 

Though  toils  we  had  to  undergo, 

Yet  soon  content — and  happy  peace  ’twas  ours  to  know, 

And  plenty,  such  as  never  blessed  our  hearth  near  Caillino ! 

And  heaven  a blessing  has  bestowed,  more  precious  far  than  wealth, 
Has  spared  us  to  each  other,  full  of  years,  yet  strong  in  health ; 
Across  the  threshold  when  we  go, 

We  see  our  children’s  children  round  us  grow, 

Like  sapling  oaks  within  thy  woods,  far  distant  Caillino. 

Yet  sadness  clouds  our  hearts  to  think  that  when  we  are  no  more, 

Our  bones  must  find  a resting-place,  far,  far  from  Erin’s  shore, 

For  us — no  funeral  sad  and  slow — 

Within  the  ancient  abbey’s  burial  ground  shall  go — 

No,  we  must  slumber  far  from  home,  far,  far  from  Caillino ! 

Yet,  oh  ! if  spirits  e’er  can  leave  the  appointed  place  of  rest, 

Once  more  will  I revisit  thee,  dear  Isle  that  I love  best, 

O’er  thy  green  vales  will  hover  slow, 

And  many  a tearful  parting  blessing  will  bestow 
On  all — but  most  of  all  on  thee , my  native  Caillino ! 

In  the  recently-printed  copies  of  these  beautiful  lines  they  are  headed  with  the  title  “ The 
Woods  of  Kylinoe j”  but  many  years  before  they  appeared  in  print  they  were  in  my  pos- 
session in  the  handwriting  of  the  fair  and  gifted  authoress,  and  were  entitled 

“ SONG  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT  IN  NORTH  AMERICA.” 

Air,  “The  Woods  of  Caillino.” 

And  this  name,  “ Caillino,”  imparts  to  it  a literary  interest  which  I am  not  only  unwilling 
to  abandon,  but  upon  which  I think  it  worth  enlarging. 

Those  who  are  familiar  with  Shakspeare  will  remember  how  much  the  speech  of  Pistol, 
in  the  fourth  scene  of  the  fourth  act  of  Henry  the  Fifth,  disturbed  the  repose  of  the  anno- 
tators, and  what  strange  hash  was  made  of  the  imperfect  text,  until  Mr.  Malone  had  the 
sagacity  to  perceive  that  Pistol  was  “repeating  the  burden  of  an  old  song,”  and  that 
burden  was 

Calen  o custure  me. 

That  Mr.  Malone  was  right  in  his  conjecture  indubitable  proof  exists,  though  Mr.  Steevens 
rejected  his  emendation. 

In  the  first  place,  we  have  evidence  that  Irish  music  was  held  in  favour  in  Elizabeth’s 
Court,  by  the  following  extract  from  “The  Talbot  Papers,”  vol.  M.,  fol.  18 ; given  in  Lodge’s 
Illustrations  of  British  History,  vol.  2,  p.  578,  8vo : — 

“We  are  frolic  here  in  Court:  much  dancing  in  the  Privy  Chamber  of  Country  Dances 
before  the  Queen’s  Majesty,  who  is  exceedingly  pleased  therewith.  Irish  tunes  are  at  this 
time  most  pleasirig ; but,  in  winter,  Lullaby,  an  old  song  of  Mr.  Bird’s,  will  be  more  in 
request,  I think.” — Letter  of  the  Earl  of  Worcester  to  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury,  dated 
September  19,  16C2. 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


163 

Iu  the  next  place,  the  burden  is  Irish — (Shakspeare  moulding  his  matter  to  the  “ form 
and  pressure”  of  the  time) — and  easily  translatable  when  properly  spelt ; and  it  is  strange 
that  Mr.  Malone,  having  got  so  far  into  the  truth,  did  not  clear  the  question  up  completely. 
Mr.  Steevens,  in  rejecting  his  emendation,  says — 

“ Mr.  Malone’s  discovery  is  a very  curious  one ; and  when  (as  probably  will  be  the  case) 
some  further  ray  of  light  is  thrown  on  the  unintelligible  words,  Calen,  &c.,  I will  be  the 
first  to  vote  it  into  the  text.” 

Now,  this  “ray  of  light”  I should  not  wonder  if  my  “farthing  candle”  can  supply. 
Mr.  Boswell,  in  his  edition  of  Shakspeare,  says,  in  noticing  Mr.  Malone’s  emendation,  that 
Mr.  Finnegan,  master  of  the  school  established  in  London  for  the  education  of  the  Irish 
poor,  says  the  words  mean  “ Little  girl  of  my  heart,  for  ever  and  ever.”  Now,  this  is  not 
the  meaning,  and  I cannot  but  wonder,  that,  with  so  much  literary  discussion  as  has 
taken  place  on  the  subject,  the  true  spelling,  and,  consequently,  the  meaning  of  the 
burden,  have  remained  till  now  undiscovered.  The  burden,  as  given  in  the  “ Handfull 
of  Plesent  Delites,”  and  copied  by  Malone,  is 

Calen  o custure  me, 

which  is  an  attempt  to  spell,  and  pretty  nearly  represents,  the  sound  ot 
Colleen  oge  astore, 

{me  being  expletive,  or  possibly  a corrupt  introduction),  and  those  words  mean  “ Young 
girl,  my  treasure.” 

Should  it  be  acknowledged  that  I have  thus  completed  the  discovery  of  the  truth  of  this 
long-debated  question,  I confess  it  would  give  me  pleasure. 

That  “Caillino” — ( colleen  oge) — was  a favourite  burden  of  songs  we  may  infer  from  the 
fact  that  it  is  to  be  found  to  different  tunes : one  in  Playford’s  Musical  Companion,  673 ; 
another  in  Wm.  Ballett’s  Lute  Book,  D.  1.  21.  in  Trin.  Coll.  Dub.  The  music  of  both,  aud 
the  entire  discussion  of  tins  vexed  question  by  the  Shakspearian  commentators,  are  given 
in  fall  in  the  Appendix. 


SONG. 

Goldsmith.  From  the  Oratorio  of  “ The  Captivity.” 

As  panting  flies  the  hunted  hind, 

Where  brooks  refreshing  stray, 

And  rivers  through  the  valley  wind, 

That  stop  the  hunter’s  way. 

Thus  we,  0 Lord,  alike  distrest, 

For  streams  of  mercy  long ; 

Those  streams  which  cheer  the  sore  opprest, 

And  overwhelm  the  strong. 

Goldsmith,  in  this  song,  (supposed  to  be  sung  by  an  Israelitish  woman,)  with  great  pro- 
priety imitates  the  style  of  the  sacred  writings : the  two  first  lines  of  the  foregoing  cannot 
fall  to  remind  the  reader  of  Psalm  XLII. 


164 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS, 


THE  ISLAND  OF  ATLANTIS. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Ckoly. 

“ For  at  that  time  the  Atlantic  Sea  was  navigable,  and  had  amisland  before  that  mouth 
which  is  called  by  you  the  pillars  of  Hercules.  But  this  island  was  greater  than  both 
Lybya  and  all  Asia  together,  and  afTorded  an  easy  passage  to  other  neighbouring  islands, 
as  it  was  easy  to  pass  from  those  islands  to  all  the  continent  which  borders  on  this  Atlantic 
Sea.  * * * * But,  in  succeeding  times,  prodigious  earthquakes  and  deluges  taking 
place,  and  bringing  with  them  desolation  in  the  space  of  one  day  and  night,  all  that  war- 
like race  of  Athenians  was  at  once  merged  under  the  earth;  and  the  Atlantic  island  itself 
being  absorbed  in  the  sea,  entirely  disappeared.” — Plato's  Timcsus. 

Oh  ! thou  Atlantic,  dark  and  deep, 

Thou  wilderness  of  waves, 

"Where  all  the  tribes  of  earth  might  sleep 
In  their  uncrowded  graves ! 

The  sunbeams  on  thy  bosom  wake, 

Yet  never  light  thy  gloom ; 

The  tempests  hurst,  yet  never  shake 
Thy  depths,  thou  mighty  tomb  ! 

Thou  thing  of  mystery,  stern  and  drear, 

Thy  secrets  who  hath  told  ? — 

The  warrier  and  his  sword  arc  there, 

The  merchant  and  his  gold. 

There  lie  their  myriads  in  thy  pall, 

Secure  from  steel  and  storm  ; 

And  he,  the  feaster  on  them  all, 

The  canker-worm. 

Yet  on  this  wave  the  mountain’s  brow 
Once  glow’d  in  morning’s  beam ; 

And,  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow, 

Out  sprang  the  stream : 

And  on  its  bank  the  olive  grove, 

And  the  peach’s  luxury, 

And  the  damask  rose — the  nightbird’s  love — 

Perfumed  the  sky. 

Where  art  thou,  proud  Atlantis,  now  P 
Where  are  thy  bright  and  brave  P 

Priest,  people,  warriors’  living  flow  ? 

Look  on  that  wave ! 

Crime  deepen’d  on  the  recreant  land, 

Long  guilty,  long  forgiven ; 

There  power  upreared  the  bloody  hand, 

There  scoff’d  at  Heaven. 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


1G5 


The  word  went  forth — the  word  of  woe — - 
The  judgment- thunders  pealed ; 

The  fiery  earthquake  blazed  below ; 

Its  doom  was  seal’d. 

How  on  his  halls  of  ivory 

Lie  giant  weed  and  ocean  slime, 

Burying  from  man’s  and  angel’s  eye 
The  land  of  crime. 

This  is  not  a song1,  it  is  true ; but  it  partakes  sufficiently  of  the  character  of  an  ode  to 
justify  its  insertion ; besides,  as  some  have  supposed  Ireland  to  be  a fragment  of  the  lost 
Atlantis,  it  is  the  more  admissible.  Such  a trifle  cannot  display  the  powers  of  so  distin- 
guished a writer,  but  it  enables  me  to  claim  him  for  our  country,  and  that  country,  I am 
d flighted  to  say,  has  not  ceased  to  be  loved  by  him  amid  all  his  successes  in  England.  I 
witnessed  this  on  a recent  occasion  of  honour  done  to  Dr.  Croly  by  his  parishioners  of 
St.  Stephen’s,  Wallbrook,  when  Sir  Francis  Graham  Moon,  then  Lord  Mayor,  opened  the 
Mansion-house  to  the  parishioners  as  the  most  fitting  place  for  this  demonstration,  and, 
with  his  accustomed  good  taste  and  liberality,  invited  a distinguished  company,  among 
whom  were  many  literati , to  be  present  at  the  ceremonial  of  honour,  and  to  partake  after- 
wards of  the  hospitality  for  which  the  civic  palace  of  London  has  ever  been  famous.  On 
that  occasion  Dr.  Croly  alluded  to  his  native  land  with  much  affection,  and  put  forward 
her  claims  to  honourable  recognition  in  arts,  letters,  and  arms,  in  a strain  of  impassioned 
panegyric ; and  the  generous  spirit  which  prompted  that  patriotic  effusion  was  met  by  a 
spirit  as  generous  on  the  part  of  his  English  auditors.  The  English  love  their  own  land 
too  well  not  to  respect  the  Irishman  who  loves  his. 


HY-BBASAIL — THE  ISLE  OF  THE  BLEST. 

Gerald  Griffin. 

“ The  people  of  Arran  fancy  that  at  certain  periods  they  see  Hy-Brasail  elevated  far  to 
the  west  in  their  watery  horizon.  This  had  been  the  universal  tradition  of  the  ancient 
Irish,  who  supposed  that  a great  part  of  Ireland  had  been  swallowed  by  the  sea,  and 
that  the  sunken  part  often  rose,  and  was  seen  hanging  in  the  horizon ! Such  was  the 
popular  notion.  The  Hy-Brasail  of  the  Irish  is  evidently  a part  of  the  Atalantis  of  Plato, 
who,  in  his  * Timseus,’  says  that  that  island  was  totally  swallowed  up  by  a prodigious  earth- 
quake. Of  some  such  shocks  the  isle  of  Arran,  the  promontories  of  Antrim,  and  some  of 
the  western  islands  of  Scotland,  bear  evident  marks.” — O’ Flaherty' s Sketch  of  the  Island 
of  Arran. 

On  the  ocean  that  hollows  the  rocks  where  ye  dwell, 

A shadowy  land  has  appeared,  as  they  tell ; 

Men  thought  it  a region  of  sunshine  and  rest, 

And  they  called  it  Hy-Brasail , the  isle  of  the  blest. 

From  year  unto  year,  on  the  ocean’s  blue  rim, 

The  beautiful  spectre  showed  lovely  and  dim  ; 

The  golden  clouds  curtained  the  deep  where  it  lay, 

And  it  looked  like  an  Eden, — away,  far  away! 


1G6 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


A peasant  who  heard  of  the  wonderful  tale, 

In  the  breeze  of  the  Orient  loosened  his  sail ; 

From  Ara,  the  holy,  he  turned  to  the  west, 

For  though  Ara  was  holy,  Hy-Brasail  was  blest. 

He  heard  not  the  voices  that  called  from  the  shore — 

He  heard  not  the  rising  wind’s  menacing  roar ; 

Home,  kindred,  and  safety  he  left  on  that  day, 

And  he  sped  to  Hy-Brasail , away,  far  away ! 

Morn  rose  on  the  deep,  and  that  shadowy  isle, 

O’er  the  faint  rim  of  distance,  reflected  its  smile ; 

Noon  burned  on  the  wave,  and  that  shadowy  shore 
Seemed  lovelily  distant,  and  faint  as  before ; 

Lone  evening  came  down  on  the  wanderer’s  track, 

And  to  Ara  again  he  looked  timidly  back ; 

Oh ! far  on  the  verge  of  the  ocean  it  lay, 

Yet  the  isle  of  the  blest  was  away,  far  away ! 

Rash  dreamer,  return ! 0,  ye  winds  of  the  main, 

Bear  him  back  to  his  own  peaceful  Ara  again. 

Rash  fool ! for  a vision  of  fanciful  bliss 
To  barter  thy  calm  life  of  labour  and  peace. 

The  warning  of  reason  was  spoken  in  vain ; 

He  never  revisited  Ara  again  ! 

Night  fell  on  the  deep,  amidst  tempest  and  spray, 

And  he  died  on  the  waters,  away,  far  away ! 

The  above,  as  a matter  of  course,  is  placed  in  succession  to  Dr.  Croly’s  “Atlantis.”  The 
coincidence  between  Plato’s  mysterious  story  and  an  Irish  tradition  cannot  fail  to  strike 
the  reader  as  remarkable,  and  might  well  awake  many  a curious  speculation.  I have  seen 
several  ballads  on  the  subject,  but  Griffin’s  is  the  most  poetical  by  far,  and  not  only 
embodies  the  tradition,  but  inculcates  a moral.  In  this  it  resembles  Moore’s  lovely 
legendary  ballad  of  “ The  Indian  Boat;”  and  in  the  third  verse  of  Griffin’s,  the  passing  of 
the  different  stages  of  the  day  without  the  desired  object  being  reached  reminds  one  of  the 
end  of  the  second  verse  of  Moore’s— 

“ Thus  on,  and  on, 

Till  day  was  gone, 

And  the  moon  thro’  heav’n  did  hie  her. 

He  swept  the  main, 

But  all  in  vain. 

That  boat  seem’d  never  the  nigher.” 

Popular  fancy  has  a sort  of  barnacle  quality  of  encrusting  tradition  with  odd  figments, 
and  a very  strange  one  has  stuck  to  Hy-Brasail,  viz.,  that,  if  a stone  or  piece  of  earth  from 
the  sacred  sod  of  Ireland  could  be  thrown  on  the  fugitive  island,  it  would  settle  the  matter 
at  once;— thus  says  a verse  in  one  of  the  many  ballads  on  the  subjects— 

“ They  also  say,  if  earth  or  stone 

From  verdant  Erin’s  hallow’d  land 

Were  on  this  magic  island  thrown, 

For  ever  fix’d  it  then  would  stand.” 

There  is  something  exceedingly  amusing  in  this  getting  within  stone’ s-throw  of  so  shy  o 
bird  as  this  flying  island. 


GOUGAUNE  BARRA. 

J.  J.  Callanan. 

Gougaune  Earra,  sublime  in  the  loneliness  of  its  deep  lake,  shadowed  into  reflected 
darkness  by  the  overhanging  mountains  of  the  ancient  district  of  “ The  Desmonds  ” (now 
South  Cork),  is  a spot,  of  all  others,  to  inspire  poet  or  painter  with  admiration;  and 
Callanan,  in  the  following  noble  lines,  shows  how  deeply  his  soul  was  under  the  spell  of 
the  local  influence.  In  Gougaune  Barra  the  river  Lee  has  its  source— the  Lee,  whose 
“pleasant  waters”  have  been  so  celebrated  in  the  exquisite  song,  “ The  Bells  of  Shandon.” 
Truly,  it  must  be  a witching  water  to  fascinate  two  such  poets— to  inspire  two  such 
lyrics.  Rare  are  the  rivers  that  can  claim  as  much well  may  this  be  called  “ Allu  of 
songs.” 


There  is  a green  island  in  lone  Gouganne  Barra, 

Where  Allu  of  songs  rushes  forth  like  an  arrow ; 

In  deep-valleyed  Desmond  a thousand  wild  fountains 
Come  down  to  that  lake,  from  their  home  in  the  mountains  ; 
There  grows  the  wild  ash ; and  a time-stricken  willow 
Looks  chidingly  down  on  the  mirth  of  the  billow, 

As,  like  some  gay  child,  that  sad  monitor  scorning, 

It  lightly  laughs  back  to  the  laugh  of  the  morning. 


168 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  ANT)  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


And  its  zone  of  dark  hills — oh ! to  see  them  all  bright’ ning, 
When  the  tempest  flings  out  its  red  banner  of  lightning, 

And  the  waters  rush  down,  ’mid  the  thunder’s  deep  rattle, 

Like  clans  from  their  hills  at  the  voice  of  the  battle  ; 

And  brightly  the  fire-crested  billows  are  gleaming, 

And  wildly  from  Mullagh  the  eagles  are  screaming. 

Oh  ! where  is  the  dwelling  in  valley,  or  highland, 

So  meet  for  a bard  as  this  lone  little  island  ? 

How  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  rested  on  Clara,* 

And  lit  the  dark  heath  on  the  hills  of  Ivera, 

Have  I sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home  by  the  ocean, 
And  trod  all  thy  wilds  with  a Minstrel’s  devotion! 

And  thought  of  thy  bards,  when  assembling  together 
In  the  cleft  of  thy  rocks,  or  the  depth  of  thy  heather, 

They  fled  from  the  Saxon’s  dark  bondage  and  slaughter, 

And  waked  their  last  song  by  the  rush  of  thy  water ! 

High  sons  of  the  lyre,  oh  ! how  proud  was  the  feeling, 

To  think,  while  alone  through  that  solitude  stealing, 

Though  loftier  minstrels  green  Erin  can  number, 

I fearlessly  wak’d  your  wild  harp  from  its  slumber, 

And  glean’d  the  gray  legend  that  long  had  been  sleeping 
Where  oblivion’s  dull  mist  o’er  its  beauty  was  creeping, 

From  the  love  which  I felt  for  my  country’s  sad  story, 

When  to  love  her  was  shame — to  revile  her  was  glory  ! 

Last  bard  of  the  free  !f  were  it  mine  to  inherit 
The  fire  of  thy  harp,  and  the  wing  of  thy  spirit — 

With  the  wrongs  which,  like  thee,  to  our  country  have  bound  me — 
Did  your  mantle  of  song  fling  its  radiance  around  me, 

Still,  still  in  those  wilds  might  young  liberty  rally, 

And  send  her  strong  shout  over  mountain  and  valley ; 

The  star  of  the  west  might  yet  rise  in  its  glory, 

And  the  land  that  was  darkest  be  brightest  in  story  ! 

I soon  shall  be  gone  ; — but  my  name  may  be  spoken 
When  Erin  awakes,  and  her  fetters  are  broken  ; 

Some  Minstrel  will  come,  in  the  summer  eve’s  gleaming, 

When  Freedom’s  young  light  on  his  spirit  is  beaming, 

To  bend  o’er  my  grave  with  a tear  of  emotion, 

Where  calm  Avon-Buee  seeks  the  kisses  of  ocean, 

And  plant  a wild  wreath,  from  the  banks  of  that  river, 

O’er  the  heart,  and  the  harp,  that  are  silent  for  ever. f 

• Cape  Clear. 

f He  must  have  meant  Moore,  from  the  context. 

% This  melancholy  aspiration  of  the  patriot  poet  was  not  realised;  his  grave  is  in  a 
foreign  land. 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS.  169 

THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON.* 

Rev.  Fkancis  Mahont. 

Here,  as  a matter  of  course,  follows  the  lyric  alluded  to  in  the  initiatory  note  to  the  fore- 
going song.  Like  the  fabled  jewel  in  the  head  of  the  toad,  or  the  garnet  in  some  uncouth 
lump  of  granite,  great  beauty  maybe  concealed  where  we  least  expect  it;  and  no  one 
looking  at  Shandon  church  would  imagine  it  could  inspire  such  exquisite  lines  as  these 
that  follow.  But  it  was  not  the  church,  after  all:  the  inspiration  lay  in  “the  bells  ’’and 
“the  pleasant  waters’’  over  which  their  chimes  are  wafted.  An  editor  must  be  excused  in 
dilating,  somewhat,  on  the  best  bits  in  his  mosaic  work ; and  there  is  so  much  to  admire  in 
this,  that  he  might  be  open  to  the  charge  of  insensibility  if  he  had  passed  by  in  silence  its 
numerous  beauties;  the  charming  sentiment — the  felicitous  versification — the  variety  of 
illustration  so  indicative  of  scholarship  without  pedantry — the  bold  and  ingenious  rhymes 
ringing  in  attractive  triple  succession,  so  appropriate  to  the  subject,  and  so  peculiarly  Irish. 

With  deep  affection 
. And  recollection 

I often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  hells, 

Whose  sounds  so  wild  would. 

In  the  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  round  my  cradle 
Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I ponder 
Where’er  I wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee  ; 

With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I’ve  heard  bells  chiming, 

Full  many  a clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in 
Cathedral  shrine  ; 

While  at  a glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate ; 

But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 
Its  bold  notes  free, 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

• Shandon  Church  is  an  odd-looking  old  structure  in  the  City  of  Cork. 

9 


170  MOEAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIEICAL  SONGS, 

I’ve  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  “Adrian’s  Mole”  in 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 
Of  Notre  Dame ; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o’er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 

Oh  ! the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

There’s  a bell  in  Moscow, 

While  on  tower  and  kiosk  0 ! 

In  Saint  Sophia 
The  Turkman  gets, 

And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summit 
Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I freely  grant  them  ; 

But  there  is  an  anthem 
More  dear  to  me — 

’Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


171 


THE  SILVERY  LEE. 

The  Lee  has  had  the  power  of  inspiration  over  her  neighbouring  poets.  Here  are  some 
very  pretty  lines  by  an  anonymous  votary  of  the  Muses  and  the  Lee.  It  is  seldom  such 
good  lines  are  to  be  found  in  a broadside,  whence  this  was  taken,  bearing  date,  Cork,  1818. 

Rivers  are  tliere  great  and  small, 

Romantic,  too,  the  course  of  many, 

W ith  coated  crag  and  foamy  fall ; 

But  never  river  saw  I any 
Half  so  fair,  so  dear  to  me, 

As  my  own,  my  silvery  Lee. 

Much  I’ve  heard  about  the  Rhine, 

With  vineyards  gay,  and  castles  stately; 

But  those  who  think  I care  for  wine 
Or  lofty  towers,  mistake  me  greatly : 

A thousand  times  more  dear  to  me 
Is  whiskey  by  the  silvery  Lee. 

The  Tagus,  with  its  golden  sand, 

The  Tiber,  full  of  ancient  glory, 

The  Danube,  though  a river  grand, 

The  Seine  and  Elbe,  renowned  in  story, 

Can  never  be  so  dear  to  me 
As  the  pure  and  silvery  Lee. 

’Tis  not  the  voice  that  tongues  the  stream, 

In  winter  hoarse,  in  spring-time  clearer, — 

That  makes  my  own  sweet  river  seem 
Above  all  other  rivers  dearer  ; 

But  ’tis  her  voice,  who  whispers  me, — 

“ How  lovely  is  the  silvery  Lee ! ” 

But  it  is  not  merely  for  its  beauties,  which  appeal  to  the  eye  and  touch  the  spiritual 
nature  of  the  poet,  that  the  Lee  is  famous;  the  creature  considerations  of  the  gourmand 
may  be  tickled  by  the  thought  of  the  unseen  stores  within  its  depths— though  not  unseen 
either,  if  we  trust  an  Irish  poet,  who  sings — 

“ Of  salmon  and  gay  speckled  trout 
It  holds  such  a plentiful  store. 

That  thousands  are  forced  to  leap  out. 

By  the  multitude  jostled  on  shore.” 

Think  o’  that ! ye  Cockney  punters,  who  spend  your  days  on  the  Thames,  and  feci  your- 
selves lucky  if  you  get  a nibble.  In  another  version  of  this  old  Irish  ballad,  entitled 
“Cormac  Oge,”  the  river  is  celebrated  as  “the  trout-loving  Lee:”  and  the  hyperbole 
gracing  the  foregoing  verse  is  given  in  this  high-sounding  line— 

“ The  fish  burst  their  banks  and  leap  high  on  the  shore.'” 


172  MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 

COBMAC  OGE. 

From  the  Irish. 

The  pigeons  coo — the  spring’s  approaching  now, 

The  bloom  is  bursting  on  the  leafy  hough  ; 

The  cresses  green  o’er  streams  are  clustering  low, 

And  honey-hives  with  sweets  abundant  flow. 

Rich  are  the  fruits  the  hazly  woods  display — 

A slender  virgin,  virtuous,  fair,  and  gay  ; 

With  steeds  and  sheep,  of  kine  a 'many  score, 

By  trout-stor’d  Lee  whose  banks  we’ll  see  no  more, 

The  little  birds  pour  music’s  sweetest  notes, 

The  calves  for  milk  distend  their  bleating  throats ; 

Above  the  weirs  the  silver  salmon  leap, 

While  Cormac  Oge  and  I all  lonely  weep ! 

The  above  is  the  ballad  alluded  to  in  “ Hardiman’s  Irish  Minstrelsy,”  as  noticed  in  the 
“Silvery  Lee,”  and  translated  by  Mr.  Edward  Walshe.  A sufficient  resemblance  exists 
among  all  the  versions  to  show  they  have  been  derived  from  the  same  original  source,  and 
all  go  to  establish  the  fame  of  the  river  for  the  plenteousness  of  its  finny  tribes.  In  this 
last  version  it  is  true  they  do  not 

“ Play  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  heaven,” 
as  the  former  one  quoted— but  there  they  are. 

Having  given  so  many  poetic  notices  of  this  very  lovely  river,  it  would  argue  carelessness 
if  I failed  to  notice  that  it  has  been  celebrated  by  another  poet,  and  that  poet,  “ though 
last,”  most  certainly  “not  least.”  The  “divine”  Spenser  has  celebrated  the  Lee,  as  he  has 
many  other  natural  beauties  and  qualities  of  Ireland,  in  his  undying  verse ; and  his  notice 
is  topographically  correct  to  minuteness.  The  Lee  divides  as  it  approaches  Cork,  and  after 
sweeping  round  the  insular  point  on  which  the  greater  part  of  the  city  stands,  reunites  and 
forms  that  far-famed  estuary,  the  Cove  of  Cork.  Spenser  gives  but  two  lines— but  even 
two  lines  from  Spenser  confer  fame , 

“ The  spreading  Lee,  that,  like  an  island  fair, 

Eiicloseth  Cork  with  his  divided  flood.” 


VIRTUE. 

Goldsmith. 

Virtue,  on  herself  relying, 
Every  passion  hush’d  to  rest, 
Loses  every  pain  of  dying, 

In  the  hope  of  being  blest. 

Every  added  pang  she  suffers 
Some  increasing  good  bestows  ; 
Every  shock  that  malice  offers 
Only  rocks  her  to  repose. 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL.  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


173 


OLD  TIMES. 

Gekald  Geifpiit. 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! the  gay  old  times ! 
When  I was  young  and  free, 

And  heard  the  merry  Easter  chimes 
Under  the  sally  tree. 

My  Sunday  palm  beside  me  placed,* 

My  cross  upon  my  hand  ; 

A Heart  at  rest  within  my  breast, 

And  sunshine  on  the  land ! 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! 

It  is  not  that  my  fortunes  Hee, 

Nor  that  my  cheek  is  pale  ; 

I mourn  whene’er  I think  of  thee, 

My  darling  native  vale  ! 

A wiser  head  I have,  I know, 

Than  when  I loitered  there; 

But  in  my  wisdom  there  is  woe, 

And  in  my  knowledge,  care. 

Old  times ! old  times  ! 

I’ve  lived  to  know  my  share  of  joy, 

To  feel  my  share  of  pain, 

To  learn  that  friendship’s  self  can  cloy, 

To  love,  and  love  in  vain ; 

To  feel  a pang  and  wear  a smile, 

To  tire  of  other  climes, 

To  like  my  own  unhappy  isle, 

And  sing  the  gay  old  times ! 

Old  times  ! old  times ! 

And  sure  the  land  is  nothing  changed, 

The  birds  are  singing  still ; 

The  flowers  are  springing  where  we  ranged, 
There’s  sunshine  on  the  hill ; 

The  sally  waving  o’er  my  head 
Still  sweetly  shades  my  frame, 

But  ah,  those  happy  days  are  fled, 

And  I am  not  the  same  ! 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! 


* In  celebration  of  Palm  Sunday  small  sprigs  of  yew  (as  representative  of  palm)  are  worn 
by  the  Roman  Catholics  in  Ireland,  and  their  places  of  worship  dressed  with  branches  of 
the  same.  The  sprig  of  palm  is  reverently  preserved  throughout  the  week,  as  the  lines 
imply ; for  the  Palm  Sunday  is  past — it  is  the  Easter  chimes  he  listens  to. 


174 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS, 


Oh,  come  again,  ye  merry  times  ! 

Sweet,  sunny,  fresh,  and  calm  ; 

And  let  me  hear  those  Easter  chimes, 

And  wear  my  Sunday  palm. 

If  I could  cry  away  mine  eyes, 

My  tears  would  flow  in  vain  ; 

If  I could  waste  my  heart  in  sighs, 

They  ’ll  never  come  again ! 

Old  times  ! old  times  ! 

In  these  beautiful  lines  we  see  the  first  appearance  of  that  melancholy  which  darkened 
the  poet’s  worldly  path.  He  says — 

“ It  is  not  that  my  fortunes  flee.’* 

No ;— it  is  that  the  world-experience  of  a sensitive  man  brought  more  of  pain  than  pleasure, 

“ — in  my  wisdom  there  is  woe. 

And  in  my  knowledge,  care.” 

The  tint  of  melancholy  colours  all  he  thinks  of; — when  he  speaks  of  his  own  isle,  it  is — 

“ my  own  unhappy  isle.” 

Yet  still,  in  the  last  verse,  there  is  the  "longing,  lingering  look  behind”  to  past  pleasure ; 

“ Oh,  come  again,  ye  merry  times ! ” 

He  was  not  quite  tired  of  the  world,  but,  ere  long,  the  past  was  nothing  to  him ; — he 
retired,  as  stated  elsewhere,  to  a monastery,  and  thought  and  lived  but  for  the  future. 

Even  in  this  retirement,  however,  there  were  times  of  recreation,  when  Brother  Joseph 
(the  poet’s  monastic  title)  was  asked  to  sing  a song ; and  I confess  it  is  a great  pleasure  to 
me  to  know  that  at  such  a time  one  of  mine  found  favour  in  that  enlightened  mind  and 
affectionate  heart,  as  the  following  extract  will  show.  “At  eight  he  joined  in  recreation, 
during  which  he  seemed  a picture  of  happiness ; he  conversed  freely  and  livelily,  and  often 
amused  us  with  a song;  ‘ Those  Evening  Bells  ’ and  ‘ The  Baby  lay  sleeping’  (The  Angel’s 
Whisper)  being  great  favourites.” — Life  of  Gerald  Griffin,  by  his  brother,  p.  460. 


HOPE. 

GonnsMiTH.  From  the  Oratorio  of  “ The  Captivity.” 


The  wretch  condemned  with  life  to  part, 
Still ! still ! on  hope  relies ; 

And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart, 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper’s  light, 
Adorns,  and  cheers  the  way : 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 
Emits  a brighter  ray. 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIEICAL  SONGS. 


175 


KNOW  YE  NOT  THAT  LOVELY  RIVER  ? 

Gerald  Griffin. 

The  following1  exquisite  verses  were  written  at  the  request  of  the  author's  sister,  then 
living  in  America.  The  Scotch  air  “Ruy’sWife”  was  a favourite  of  hers,  and  she  wished 
for  some  lines  to  sing  to  it,  not  liking  any  that  had  been  adapted  to  that  very  sweet 
melody.  It  is  not  an  easy  air  to  write  to,  being,  from  its  peculiarly  Scottish  structure,  more 
suited  to  instrumentation  than  vocalisation.  I do  not  mean  this  remark  to  apply  to  Scotch 
airs  in  general,  all  the  flowing  ones  being  as  fine  as  any  in  the  world  for  the  purposes  of 
song,  but  in  “ Roy’s  Wife  ” there  is  something  of  a lilting  character  unfavourable  to  song. 
Even  Burns,  that  great  master  of  musical  measure,  was  not  as  happy  as  usual  in  his  verses 
to  this  melody.  The  melody  is  often  called  “Garnavilla’’  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  from  a 
song  called  “Kate  of  Garnavilla,”  very  popular  some  half  century  ago,  and  though  of  no 
great  literary  merit,  perhaps  it  sings  better  than  any  other  to  the  melody.  In  point  of 
poetic  beauty  and  intensity  of  feeling,  Griffin’s  verses  far  surpass  any  ever  written  to  the 
air,  but  they  partake  of  the  character  of  an  ode  rather  than  of  a song.  The  river  thus  dearly 
remembered  is  the  Ovaan,  or  White  River,  which  sports  in  great  variety  of  character 
through  a romantic  glen,  where  the  poet  loved  to  wander. 


Know  ye  not  that  lovely  river  ? 

Know  ye  not  that  smiling  river  ? 

Whose  gentle  flood, 

By  cliff  and  wood, 

With  ’wildering  sound  goes  winding  ever. 

Oh  ! often  yet  with  feeling  strong, 

On  that  dear  stream  my  memory  ponders, 
And  still  I prize  its  murmuring  song, 

For  by  my  childhood’s  home  it  wanders. 

Know  ye  not,  &c. 

There’s  music  in  each  wind  that  blows 
Within  our  native  valley  breathing ; 
There’s  beauty  in  each  flower  that  grows 
Around  our  native  woodland  wreathing. 
The  memory  of  the  brightest  joys 

In  childhood’s  happy  morn  that  found  us, 
Is  dearer  than  the  richest  toys, 

The  present  vainly  sheds  around  us. 

Know  ye  not,  &c. 

Oh,  sister  ! when  ’mid  doubts  and  fears 
That  haunt  life’s  onward  journey  ever, 

I turn  to  those  departed  years, 

And  that  beloved  and  lovely  river ; 


176 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS, 


With  sinking  mind  and  bosom  riven, 

And  heart  with  lonely  anguish  aching, 

It  needs  my  long- taught  hope  in  heaven, 

To  keep  that  weary  heart  from  breaking  ! 

Know  ye  not,  &c. 

The  following1  remarks  from  Dr.  Griffin,  in  his  interesting  memoir  of  his  brother,  seem  to 
me  too  worthy  of  quotation  to  be  omitted  here : — 

“ The  exquisite  tenderness  and  depth  of  the  feeling  conveyed  in  these  lines  rendered  them, 
like  those  touching  ones  addressed  by  the  late  Rev.  C.  Woolfe  to  “Mary,”  but  badly 
adapted  to  be  sung  to  any  air,  however  beautiful.  It  is  evident  they  were  written  after 
that  change  had  come  over  his  mind  to  which  I have  already  slightly  alluded,  and  which 
took  away  entirely  his  early  and  strong  thirst  for  literary  fame.  However  people  in  general 
may  regret  such  an  alteration,  there  are  few  persons  who  have  arrived  at  that  period  of 
life  when  reflection  begins  to  prevail,  and  enables  them  to  perceive  clearly  the  fleeting 
destiny  of  every  temporal  interest,  who  have  not  themselves  at  one  time  or  another  been 
under  the  visitation  of  those  ‘doubts  and  fears  ’ they  so  beautifully  express,  and  who  will 
fail,  therefore,  to  sympathise  with  that  serious  cast  of  thought  which  was  so  prevalent  in 
his  later  writings,  though  it  lessened  their  interest  by  depriving  them  of  that  character  of 
passion  which  is  such  a jewel  with  the  multitude.” — Life  of  Gerald  Griffin , by  his  brother, 
Daniel  Griffin,  M.D.,  p.  58. 


KATE  OE  GARKAVILLA. 

Edward  Lysaght. 

Here  is  the  song  alluded  to  in  the  leading  notice  of  the  foregoing  verses.  To  any  one  of 
musical  ear  it  will  be  apparent  I have  not  said  too  much  in  giving  it  the  preference  to 
Bums’s  “ Canst  thou  leave  me  thus  my  Katy  ? ” It  has  more  variety  and  greater  sweetness, 
even  in  the  refrain— or  chorus,  as  Burns  has  it.  Let  comparison  be  made  by  speaking — 
to  say  nothing  of  singing— the  two  following  lines,  and 

“ Canst  thou  leave  me  thus  my  Katy  ? ” 
sounds  rather  harsh  and  sibilant  j while 

“ Have  you  been  at  Garnavilla  ? ” 

is  almost  as  musical  as  Italian.  In  short,  the  song  throughout  is  very  happy  in  syllabic 
structure  and  choice  of  suitable  and  musical  words. 

Have  you  been  at  Garnavilla  ? 

Have  you  seen  at  Garnavilla 
Beauty’s  train  trip  o’er  the  plain 
With  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla  ? 

Oh  ! she’s  pure  as  virgin  snows 
Ere  they  light  on  woodland  hill ; 0 
Sweet  as  dew-drop  on  wild  rose 
Is  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla  ! 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


177 


Philomel,  I’ve  listened  oft 

To  thy  lay,  nigh  weeping  willow  ; 

Oh,  the  strain’s  more  sweet,  more  soft, 
That  hows  from  Kate  of  Garnavilla  ! 

Have  you  been,  &c. 

As  a noble  ship  I’ve  seen 

Sailing  o’er  the  swelling  billow, 

So  I’ve  marked  the  graceful  mien 
Of  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla. 

Have  you  been,  &c. 

If  poets’  prayers  can  banish  cares, 

No  cares  shall  come  to  Garnavilla  ; 

Joy’s  bright  rays  shall  gild  her  days, 

And  dove-like  peace  perch  on  her  pillow. 

Charming  maid  of  Garnavilla  ! 

Lovely  maid  of  Garnavilla  ! 

Beauty,  grace,  and  virtue  wait 

On  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla  ! 


“Fair  play  is  a jewel” — an  old  saying  I honour;  and,  wishing  to  act  up  to  it,  I give  the 
entire  of  Burns’s  song,  that  any  reader  who  may  not  have  a volume  of  Burns  to  refer  to,  at 
the  moment,  may  compare  the  two  songs  here : — 

“CANST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS,  MY  KATY? 

“Tune,  ‘ Roy’s  Wife.’ 

“ Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 

Well  thou  know’st  my  aching  heart, 

And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  ? 

**  Is  this  thy  plighted  fond  regard, 

Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy  ? 

Is  this  thy  faithful  swain’s  reward — 

An  aching,  broken  heart,  my  Kaly  ? 

Canst  thou,  &c. 

“ Farewell ! may  ne’er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy : 

Thou  may’st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear — 

But  not  a love  like  mine,  my  Katy. 

Canst  thou,  &c.” 

It  is  a curious  coincidence  that  each  of  these  three  songs  begins  with  a question.  Perhaps 
the  note  of  interrogation  infected  me  with  the  inquiring  spirit  of  criticism  in  which  I have 
ventured  to  indulge. 


178 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


CUPID’S  WING 


Samuel  Lovee. 


The  dart  of  Love  was  feather’d  first 
From  Folly’s  wing,  they  say, 

Until  he  tried  his  shaft  to  shoot 
In  Beauty’s  heart  one  day ; 

He  miss’d  the  maid  so  oft,  ’tis  said, 

His  aim  became  untrue, 

And  Beauty  laugh’d  as  his  last  shaft 
He  from  his  quiver  drew; 

“In  vain,”  said  she,  “you  shoot  at  me, 
You  little  spiteful  thing — 

The  feather  on  your  shaft  I scorn, 
When  pluck’d  from  Folly’s  wing.51 

But  Cupid  soon  fresh  arrows  found, 

And  fitted  to  his  string, 

And  each  new  shaft  he  feather’d  from 
His  own  bright  glossy  wing  ; 

He  shot  until  no  plume  was  left, 

To  waft  him  to  the  sky, 

And  Beauty  smiled  upon  the  child 
When  he  no  more  could  fly : 

“ Now,  Cupid,  I am  thine,”  she  said, 

“ Leave  off  thy  archer  play, 

Fc  ;he  is  sure 


Goldsmith.  From  the  “ Vicar  of  Wakefield.** 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray  ; 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy,, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye5 
To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wririg  his  bosom,  is — to  dip, 


WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN. 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


179 


WHAT  BARD,  0 TIME,  DISCOVER. 

Sheridan. 

What  bard,  0 Time,  discover 

With  wings  first  made  thee  movo ! 

Ah ! sure  he  was  some  lover 
Who  ne’er  had  left  his  love  ! 

For  who  that  once  did  prove 
The  pangs  which  absence  brings, 

Tho’  but  one  day 
He  were  away, 

Could  picture  thee  with  wings  ? 

These  sweet  and  ingenious  lines  are  from  “ The  Duenna.”  The  song  does  not  appear  in 
the  late  editions  of  the  opera.  I obtained  it  from  an  old  Dublin  edition,  dated  1786 — where 
the  piece  is  entitled,  “ The  Duenna,  or  double  elopement ; a comic  opera,  as  it  is  acted  at 
the  Theatre,  Smoke  Alley,  Dublin.”  (Properly  called  Smock  Alley.) 

In  this  edition  most  outrageous  liberties  have  been  taken  with  the  original  text. 


ALAS!  TnOU  HAST  NO  WINGS,  OH!  TIME. 

Sheridan. 

In  the  lines  that  follow  will  be  found  the  original  form  of  the  idea  which  the  author  so 
much  improved  in  the  foregoing.  Moore,  in  his  life  of  Sheridan,  gives  numerous  instances 
of  the  extreme  care  with  which  he  filed  and  polished  up  his  shafts  of  wit  to  bring  them  to 
the  finest  point.  In  this  practice  no  one  could  better  sympathize  than  Moore. 


Alas  ! thou  hast  no  wings,  oh  ! time  ; 

It  was  some  thoughtless  lover’s  rhyme, 
Who,  writing  in  his  Chloe’s  view, 

Paid  her  the  compliment  through  you. 

For  had  he,  if  he  truly  loved, 

But  once  the  pangs  of  absence  proved, 
He’d  cropt  thy  wings,  and,  in  their  stead, 
Have  painted  thee  with  heels  of  lead. 


* 


Samuel  Loyee. 

A four-leaved  Shamrock  is  of  such  rarity  that  it  is  supposed 
to  endue  the  finder  with  magic  power. 


’ll  seek  a four-leaved  sliamrock  in  all  the  fairy 
dells, 

4 And  if  I lind  the  charmed  leaves,  oh,  how  I’ll 
weave  my  spells ! 

I would  not  waste  my  magic  might  on  diamond, 
pearl,  or  gold, 

I'or  treasure  tires  the  weary  sense, — such  triumph  is  hut  cold  ; 

But  I would  play  the  enchanter’s  part  in  casting  bliss  around, — 

Oh ! not  a tear  nor  aching  heart  should  in  the  world  be  found. 


To  worth  I would  give  honor  ! — I’d  dry  the  mourner’s  tears, 

And  to  the  pallid  lip  recall  the  smile  of  happier  years  ; 

And  hearts  that  had  been  long  estrang’d,  and  friends  that  had  grown 
cold, 

Should  meet  again — like  parted  streams — and  mingle  as  of  old  ! 

Oh!  thus  I’d  play  the  enchanter’s  part,  thus  scatter  bliss  around, 

And  not  a tear  nor  aching  heart  should  in  the  world  be  found  ! 


4 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


181 


The  heart  that  had  been  mourning  o’er  vanish’d  dreams  of  love 
Should  see  them  all  returning, — like  Noah’s  faithful  dove, 

And  Hope  should  launch  her  blessed  bark  on  Sorrow’s  dark’ning  sea, 
And  Mis’ry’s  children  have  an  Ark,  and  saved  from  sinking  be  ; 

Oh ! thus  I’d  play  the  enchanter’s  part,  thus  scatter  bliss  around, 

And  not  a tear  nor  aching  heart  should  in  the  world  be  found. 


SLEEP  THAT  LIKE  THE  COUCHED  DOVE. 

Gerald  Griffin. 

Sleep,  that  like  the  couched  dove, 

Broods  o’er  the  weary  eye, 

Dreams,  that  with  soft  heavings  move 
The  heart  of  memory — 

Labour’s  guerdon,  golden  rest, 

Wrap  thee  in  its  downy  vest ; 

F all  like  comfort  on  thy  brain, 

And  sing  the  hush-song  to  thy  pain  !* * * § 

F ar  from  thee  be  startling  fears, 

And  dreams  the  guilty  dream  ; 

No  banshee  scare  thy  drowsy  ears,f 
With  her  ill-omened  scream. 

But  tones  of  fairy  minstrelsy 

Float,  like  the  ghosts  of  sound  o’er  thce,;j; 

Soft  as  the  chapel’s  distant  bell, 

And  lull  thee  to  a sweet  farewell. 

Ye,  for  whom  the  ashy  hearth 
The  fearful  housewife  clears — § 

Ye,  whose  tiny  sounds  of  mirth, 

The  nighted  carman  hears — 

* To  English  readers  it  may  be  as  well  to  state  that  the  hush-song,  or  the  more  familiar 
Irish  word  “ hush-o,”  is  lowly  murmured  by  every  Irish  nurse  as  she  rocks  the  child  in  her 
arms,  or  in  the  cradle. 

t The  Banshee  is  more  frequently  heard  than  seen,  but  when  seen,  is  arrayed  in  white 
(hence  the  prefix  ban),  and.  Siren-like,  combing  her  hair.  Her  wail  predicts  death  to  some 
one  dear  to  the  hearer. 

t “ Ghosts  of  sound  ” — how  expressive ! 

§ Often  may  the  "fearful  housewife”  be  seen  sweeping  up  the  hearth  for  the  fairies — or, 
as  they  more  frequently  call  them,  " the  good,  people” — I have  been  chidden,  as  a boy,  by  an 
Irish  peasant  for  using  the  word  “fairy” — “Don’t  call  them  that , Masther;  they  don’t 
like  it— say  s good  people.”* 


182 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Ye,  whose  pigmy  hammers  make  * 

The  wonderers  of  the  cottage  wake — 

Noiseless  be  your  airy  flight. 

Silent,  as  the  still  moonlight. 

Silent  go,  and  harmless  come, 

Fairies  of  the  stream — 

Ye,  who  love  the  winter  gloom, 

Or  the  gay  moonbeam — - 
Hither  bring  your  drowsy  store, 

Gathered  from  the  bright  lusmore,f 
Shake  o’er  temples,  soft  and  deep, 

The  comfort  of  the  poor  man’s  sleep. 

* The  fairies  in  Ireland  have  the  reputation  of  being  great  shoemakers ; — hence  the 
tapping  of  the  “ pigmy  hammers.”  I suppose  the  fairies  thus  employ  themselves  for  such 
ladies  as  have  that  personal  gift,  (so  be-poetized,)  a fairy  foot. 

t Commonly  called  “fairy-cap”  by  the  Irish— the  fairies  being  supposed  to  appropriate 
the  flowers  of  the  plant  for  head-dresses.  The  literal  meaning  of  Lusmore  is  “ great  herb.” 
It  is  supposed  to  possess  many  magical  qualities,  and  really  does  possess  valuable  medical 
ones,  for  it  is  the  digitalis  purpurea. 


WAITING  FOR  THE  MAY. 

Clarence  Mangan. 

Command  of  rythm,  in  almost  capricious  variety,  with  great  facility  and  melody  of 
rhyme,  were  among  the  poetic  gifts  of  Clarence  Mangan.  The  fineness  of  his  ear,  in  both 
respects,  is  evident  in  the  following  exquisite  lines,  and  it  is  feared  his  latter  days  were 
sufficiently  sorrow-shaded  to  account  for  their  morbidness.  They  are  intense  in  feeling— 
sweetly  poetical — bitterly  sad — 

“ Most  musical,  most  melancholy.” 

An ! my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May — ■ 

W aiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles, 

Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn-brambles, 

With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 

Ah!  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 

Longing  for  the  May — 

Longing  to  escape  from  study 
To  the  fair  young  face  and  ruddy, 


MOEAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIEICAL  SONGS. 


183 


And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 
To  the  summer’s  day. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
{Sighing  for  the  May — 

Sighing  for  their  sure  returning 
When  the  summer-beams  are  burning, 
Hopes  and  flowers  that  dead  or  dying 
All  the  winter  lay. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May — 
Throbbing  for  the  seaside  billows, 

Or  the  water-wooing  willows, 

Where  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing 
Glide  the  streams  away. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting,  sad,  dejected,  weary, 

W aiting  for  the  May. 

Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings — 
Moonlit  evenings,  sunbright  mornings — 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 
Life  still  ebbs  away — 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May ! 


THE  LOAD  OF  LIFE; 

OE,  SONG  OF  THE  IEISH  POST-BOY. 
Samuel  Loveb.  From  “ Songs  and  Ballads.” 

Oh  ! youth,  happy  youth  ! what  a blessing  I 
III  thy  freshness  of  dawn  and  of  dew ; 
When  Hope  the  young  heart  is  caressing, 
And  our  griefs  are  but  light  and  but  few: 
Yet  in  life,  as  it  swiftly  flies  o’er  us, 

Some  musing  for  sadness  we  find ; 

In  youth — we’ve  our  troubles  before  us, 

In  age — we  leave  pleasure  behind. 


184 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


Aye — Trouble ’s  the  post-boy  that  drives  us 
Up  hill,  till  we  get  to  the  top ; 

"While  Joy’s  an  old  servant  behind  us 
We  call  on  for  ever  to  stop  ; 

“ Oh,  put  on  the  drag,  Joy,  my  jewel, 

As  long  as  the  sunset  still  glows ; 

Before  it  is  dark  ’twould  be  cruel 
To  haste  to  the  hill-foot’s  repose. 

But  there  stands  an  inn  we  must  stop  at, 

An  extinguisher  swings  for  the  sign  ; 

That  house  is  but  cold  and  but  narrow : — 
But  the  prospect  beyond  it’s  divine ! 

And  there — whence  there’s  never  returning, 
When  we  travel — as  travel  we  must — 

May  the  gates  be  all  free  for  our  journey  ! 
And  the  tears  of  our  friends  lay  the  dust ! 


HARK!  HARK!  THE  SOFT  BUGLE. 

Griffin-. 


Hark  ! hark ! the  soft  bugle  sounds  over  the  wood, 

And  thrills  in  the  silence  of  even, 

Till  faint,  and  more  faint,  in  the  far  solitude, 

It  dies  on  the  portals  of  heaven  ! 

But  Echo  springs  up  from  her  home  in  the  rock, 

And  seizes  the  perishing  strain ; 

And  sends  the  gay  challenge  with  shadowy  mock, 

From  mountain  to  mountain  again, 

And  again ! 

From  mountain  to  mountain  again. 

Oh,  thus  let  my  love,  like  a sound  of  delight, 

Be  around  thee  while  shines  the  glad  day, 

And  leave  thee,  unpain’d  in  the  silence  of  night, 

And  die  like  sweet  music  away. 

While  hope,  with  her  warm  light,  thy  glancing  eye  tills, 
Oh,  say,  “Like  that  echoing  strain — 

Though  the  sound  of  his  love  has  died  over  the  hills, 

It  will  waken  in  heaven  again, 

And  again ! 

It  will  waken  in  heaven  again.” 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS, 


185 


SWEET  CIILOE. 

Lysaght. 

Sweet  Chloe  advised  me,  in  accents  divine, 

The  joys  of  the  bowl  to  surrender  ; 

Nor  lose,  in  the  turbid  excesses  of  wine, 

Delights  more  ecstatic  and  tender  ; 
a She  bade  me  no  longer  in  vineyards  to  bask, 

Or  stagger,  at  orgies,  the  dupe  of  a flask, 

For  the  sigh  of  a sot’s  but  the  scent  of  the  cask, 
And  a bubble  the  bliss  of  the  bottle. 

To  a soul  that’s  exhausted,  or  sterile,  or  dry, 

The  juice  of  the  grape  may  be  wanted ; 

But  mine  is  reviv’d  by  a love-beaming  eye, 

And  with  fancy’s  gay  flow’rets  enchanted. 

Oh  ! who  but  an  owl  would  a garland  entwine 

Of  Bacchus’s  ivy — and  myrtle  resign  ? 

Yield  the  odours  of  love,  for  the  vapours  of  wine, 
And  Chloe’s  kind  kiss  for  a bottle  Y 


MARKED  YOU  HER  CHEEK  ? 

Sheridan. 

Mark’d  you  her  cheek  of  rosy  hue  ? 

Mark’d  you  her  eye  of  sparkling  blue  ? 

That  eye,  in  liquid  circles  moving  ; 

That  cheek,  abashed  at  Man’s  approving ; 

The  one,  Love’s  arrows  darting  round ; 

The  other,  blushing  at  the  wound : 

Did  she  not  speak,  did  she  not  move, 

Now  Pallas — now  the  Queen  of  Love ! 

These  lines  are  generally  supposed  to  haye  been  written  upon  Miss  Linley ; but  Moore, 
in  his  Life  of  Sheridan,  tells  us  Lady  Margaret  Fordyce  was  the  object  of  this  sparkling 
eulogy.  They  are  part  of  a long  poem  in  which,  to  use  Moore’s  words,  “ they  shine  out  so 
conspicuously,  that  we  cannot  wonder  at  their  having  been  so  soon  detached,  like  ill-set 
gems,  from  the  loose  and  clumsy  workmanship  around  them.”  In  the  same  poem,  says 
Moore,  we  find  " one  of  those  familiar  lines  which  so  many  quote  without  knowing  whence 
they  come;— one  of  those  stray  fragments  whose  parentage  is  doubtful,  but  to  which  (as 
the  law  says  of  illegitimate  children),  '•pater  eat  populua,’  ” — 

“ You  write  with  ease  to  show  your  breeding ; 

But  easy  writing’s  curst  hard  reading.” 


PETRARCH’S  INKSTAND. 


Miss  Edgeworth.  Born,  1767.  Died,  1849. 

When  the  inkstand  of  Petrarch  was  presented  to  Miss  Edgeworth,  the  gift  was  made  to 
one  by  whose  refinement  and  sensitiveness  it  could  be  most  highly  appreciated.  It  may  be 
supposed  she  was  more  than  ordinarily  touched  by  it,  when  it  hurried  her  into  verse ; for 
the  “ even  tenor”  of  her  thoughts  accorded  best  with  prose.  She  so  seldom  indulged  in 
the  sportive  grace  of  metrical  composition,  that  the  following  lines  derive  an  additional 
value  from  their  rarity,  superadded  to  their  intrinsic  merit  of  sweet  sentiment,  gracefully 
expressed. 

But  not  for  the  mere  recording  of  these  lines  are  they  introduced  in  this  volume : they 
afford  the  proud  opportunity  of  gracing  our  pages  with  the  name  of  Maria  Edgeworth, 
whose  numerous  works  are  so  honourable  to  Ireland; — works  bright  with  genius,  and  rich 
in  usefulness.  To  her  the  highest  place  must  be  assigned  among  our  lady  writers ; for  her 
novels  and  tales  are  vivid  not  only  with  national  character,  but  with  the  more  general 
forms  of  universal  life ; and  while  they  captivate  by  their  entertaining  qualities,  inculcate 
the  purest  lessons  of  morality. 


By  beauty  won  from  soft  Italia’s  land, 

Here  Cupid,  Petrarch’s  Cupid,  takes  his  stand. 
Arch  suppliant,  welcome  to  thy  fav’rite  isle, 

Close  thy  spread  wings,  and  rest  thee  here  awhile ; 
Still  the  true-heart  with  kindred  strains  inspire, 
Breathe  all  a poet’s  softness,  all  his  hre  ; 

But  if  the  perjured  knight  approach  this  font, 
Forbid  the  words  to  come  as  they  were  wont, 
Forbid  the  ink  to  flow,  the  pen  to  write, 

And  send  the  false  one  baffled  from  thy  sight. 


In  the  three  first  lines  Miss  Edgeworth  pays  a graceful  compliment  at  once  to  her 
countrywomen  and  her  countrymen : — to  the  beauty  of  the  former,  and  the  devotion  which 
it  commands  from  the  latter. 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


187 


YOUNG  TYRANT  OF  THE  BOW. 

Rev.  George  Croly,  D.D. 

Young  tyrant  of  the  bow  and  wings, 

Thy  altar  asks  three  precious  things, 

The  heart’s,  the  world’s,  most  precious  three. 
Courage,  and  time,  and  constancy. 

Yes ! love  must  have  them  all,  or  none, 

By  time  he’s  wearied,  hut  not  won  ; 

He  shrinks  from  courage  hot  and  high ; 

Tie  laughs  at  tedious  constancy  ; 

But  all  his  raptures,  tender,  true,  sublime, 
Are  given  to  courage,  constancy,  and  time. 


EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  PURDON.* 

Goldsmith. 

Here  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 

Who  long  was  a bookseller’s  hack : 

He  lived  such  a damnable  life  in  this  world, 

I don’t  think  he’ll  wish  to  come  back. 

* This  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin ; but  having  wasted  his  patri- 
mony, he  enlisted  as  a foot  soldier.  Growing  tired  of  that  employment,  he  obtained  his 
discharge,  and  became  a scribbler  in  the  newspapers.  He  translated  Voltaire’s  Henriade. 


DANCE  LIGHT,  FOR  MY  HEART  IT  LIES  UNDER 
YOUR  FEET,  LOYE. 

Air,  “ Huish  the  cat  from  under  the  table/* 

John  F.  Waller,  LL.D. 

The  editor  would  not  do  justice  to  his  own  feelings  or  the  author’s  merits  did  he  fail 
to  notice  this  song  as  one  of  the  most  charming  of  its  class : full  of  truth— admirably 
graphic — and  thoroughly  national  in  its  sportive  tenderness. 

“ Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from  that  wheel — 

Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from  spinning ; 

Come  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore  tree, 

Half  the  parish  is  there,  and  the  dance  is  beginning. 


188 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


The  sun  is  gone  down,  but  the  full  harvest  moon 
Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew-whitened  valley; 

While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft,  loving  things, 

Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green  shaded  alley.” 

With  a blush  and  a smile,  Kitty  rose  up  the  while, 

Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her  hair,  glancing ; 

’ Tis  hard  to  refuse  when  a young  lover  sues — 

So  she  couldn’t  but  choose  to  go  off  to  the  dancing. 

And  now  on  the  green,  the  glad  groups  are  seen — 

Each  gay-hearted  lad  with  the  lass  of  his  choosing ; 

And  Pat,  without  fail,  leads  our  sweet  Kitty  Neil — 

Somehow,  when  he  asked,  she  ne’er  thought  of  Refusing. 

Now,  Felix  Magee  puts  his  pipes  to  his  knee, 

And,  with  flourish  so  free,  sets  each  couple  in  motion ; 

With  a cheer  and  a bound,  the  lads  patter  the  ground — 

The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans  on  the  ocean. 

Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose — feet  light  as  the  doe’s, 

Now  coyly  retiring,  now  boldly  advancing — 

Search  the  world  all  round,  from  the  sky  to  the  ground, 

No  SUCH  SIGHT  CAN  DE  EOUND  AS  AN  IRISH  LASS  DANCING  ! 

Sweet  Kate  ! who  could  view  your  bright  eyes  of  deep  blue, 
Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark  lashes  so  mildly, 

Your  fair-turned  arm,  heaving  breast,  rounded  form, 

Nor  feel  his  heart  warm,  and  his  pulses  throb  wildly  ? 

Young  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  depart, 

Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful  yet  sweet  love ; 

The  sight  leaves  his  eye,  as  he  cries  with  a sigh, 

“ Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under  your  feetj  love  Jn 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


189 


THE  WIND  AND  THE  WEATHERCOCK. 

Samuel  Lovek. 


The  summer  wind  lightly  was  playing 
Round  the  battlement  high  of  the  tow’r, 

Where  a vane,  like  a lady,  was  staying, — 

A lady  vain  perch’d  in  her  bow’r. 

To  peep  round  the  corner  the  sly  wind  would  try ; 
But  vanes,  you  know,  never  look  in  the  wind’s  eye; 
And  so  she  kept  turning  shily  away : — 

Thus  they  kept  playing  all  through  the  day. 

The  summer  wind  said,  “She’s  coquetting: 

But  each  belle  has  her  points  to  be  found ; 

Before  evening,  I’ll  venture  on  betting, 

She  will  not  then  go  hut  come  round  ! ” 

So  he  tried  from  the  east,  and  he  tried  from  the  west, 
And  the  north  and  the  south,  to  try  which  was  best ; 
But  still  she  kept  turning  shily  away : — 

Thus  they  kept  playing  all  through  the  day. 

At  evening,  her  hard  heart  to  soften, 

He  said,  “ You’re  a flirt,  I am  sure ; 

But  if  vainly  you’re  changing  so  often, 

No  lover  you’ll  ever  secure.” 

“ Sweet  sir,”  said  the  vane,  “ it  is  you  who  begin; 
When  you  change  so  often,  in  me  ’tis  no  sin ; 

If  you  cease  to  flutter,  and  steadily  sigh, 

And  only  he  constant— I’m  sure  so  will  I.” 


EPIGRAM 

ON  THE  BESTS  IN  RICHMOND  HERMITAGE.  1732. 
Dean  Swift. 

Lewis  the  living  learned  fed, 

And  raised  the  scientific  head  : 

Our  frugal  Queen,*  to  save  her  meat, 

Exalts  the  head  that  cannot  eat. 


Queen  Anne. 


190 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


EPIGRAM. 

Dean  Swift.  Bom,  1607.  Died,  1746. 

The  “ witty  Dean”  as  he  has  been  justly  called,  was  born  in  Dublin.  His  fame  is  too 
large  and  wide-spread  to  require  any  elaborate  notice  of  the  speciality  of  his  genius  here. 
But  it  should  be  noted,  in  a book  so  essentially  Irish,  that  his  memory  must  be 
honoured  not  only  for  his  genius  but  for  his  unflinching  patriotism,  persevered  in,  as  his 
friend  Doctor  Delany  declares,  “under  many  severe  trials  and  bitter  persecutions,  to  the 
manifest  hazard  of  his  liberty  and  fortune.”  As  his  greatest  works  are  in  prose,  the  highest 
examples  of  his  pen  cannot  be  given  in  a volume  of  verse,  and  song  was  not  a mode  of  the 
lyre  in  which  the  Dean  indulged ; but  some  of  his  lighter  effusions,  which  Doctor  Johnson 
(who  was  not  over-given  to  laudation)  praises  for  their  humour,  raciness,  and  gaiety,  may 
fitly  take  their  place  in  such  a collection — his  epigrams  especially,  which  exhibit  that 
satiric  power  for  which  his  iame  is  so  celebrated. 

As  Thomas  was  cudgell’d  one  day  by  his  wife, 

He  took  to  the  streets  and  tied  for  his  life : 

Tom’s  three  dearest  friends  came  by  in  the  squabble, 

And  sav’d  him  at  once  from  the  shrew  and  the  rabble ; 

Then  ventur’d  to  give  him  some  sober  advice  — 

But  Tom  is  a person  of  honour  so  nice, 

Too  wise  to  take  counsel,  too  proud  to  take  warning, 

That  he  sent  to  all  three  a challenge  next  morning  ; 

Three  duels  he  fought,  thrice  ventur’d  his  life  ; 

Went  home,  and  was  cudgell’d  again  by  his  wife. 


OX  MRS.  BIDDY  FLOYD ; 

OR, 

THE  RECEIPT  TO  EORM  A BEAETY.f 
Dean  Swift. 

When  Cupid  did  his  grandsire  Jove  entreat 
To  form  some  beauty  by  a new  receipt, 

Jove  sent,  and  found,  far  in  a country  scene, 

Truth,  innocence,  good  nature,  look  serene : 

From  which  ingredients  first  the  dexterous  boy 
Pick’d  the  demure,  the  awkward,  and  the  coy. 

The  Graces  from  the  Court  did  next  provide 
Breeding,  and  wit,  and  air,  and  decent  pride : 

These  Yenus  clears  from  every  spurious  grain 
Of  nice,  coquet,  affected,  pert,  arid  vain ; 

Jove  mix’d  up  all,  and  his  best  clay  employ’d ; 

Then  call’d  the  happy  composition  Floyd. 

f An  elegant  Latin  version  of  this  poem  is  in  the  sixth  volume  of  Dryden’s  Miscellanies. 


191 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 

BEAUTY  AND  TIME. 

Samuel  Loveb.  From  “ Songs  and  Ballads.” 

■ Time  met  Beauty  one  day  in  her  garden, 

Where  roses  were  blooming  fair  ; 

Time  and  Beauty  were  never  good  friends, 

So  she  wondered  what  brought  him  there. 

Poor  Beauty  exclaim’d,  with  a sorrowful  air, 

“ I request,  Father  Time,  my  sweet  roses  you’ll  spare,” 

For  Time  was  going  to  mow  them  all  down, 

While  Beauty  exclaim’d — with  her  prettiest  frown, 

“ Fie,  Father  Time!” 

“ Well,”  said  Time,  “ at  least  let  me  gather 
A few  of  your  roses  here, 

’Tis  part  of  my  pride  to  be  always  supplied 
With  such  roses  the  whole  of  the  year.” 

Poor  Beauty  consented,  tho’  half  in  despair; 

And  Time,  as  he  went,  ask’d  a lock  of  her  hair; 

And  as  he  stole  the  soft  ringlet  so  bright, 

He  vow’d  ’twas  for  love — but  she  knew  ’twas  for  spite. 

Oh  tie,  Father  Time! 

Time  went  on  and  left  Beauty  in  tears ; 

He’s  a tell-tale  the  world  well  knows  : — 

So  he  boasted  to  all  of  the  fair  lady’s  fall, 

And  show’d  the  lost  ringlet  and  rose. 

So  shock’d  was  poor  Beauty  to  find  that  her  fame 
Was  ruin’d — tho’  she  was  in  nowise  to  blame, 

That  she  droop’d,  like  some  flow’r  that  is  torn  from  its  clime, 
And  her  friends  all  mysteriously  said — “ It  was  Time” 

Oh  fie,  Father  Time! 


COBINYA. 

Dean  Swift.  Written,  1712. 

This  day  (the  year  I dare  not  tell) 

Apollo  play’d  the  midwife’  part ; 

Into  the  world  Corinna  fell, 

And  he  endow’d  her  with  his  art. 

But  Cupid  with  a Satyr  comes  : 

Both  softly  to  the  cradle  creep ; 

Both  stroke  her  hands  and  rub  her  gums, 
While  the  poor  child  lay  fast  asleep. 

Then  Cupid  thus : “ this  little  maid 
Of  love  shall  always  speak  and  write.” 

“ And  I pronounce”  (the  Satyr  said 

u The  world  shall  feel  her  scratch  and  bite.” 


192 


MOIIAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATI111CAL  SONGS, 


SONG. 

Dr.  Parnell. 

Thyesis,  a young  and  amorous  swain, 

Saw  two,  the  beauties  of  the  plain, 

"Who  both  his  heart  subdue  : 

Gay  Coelia’s  eyes  were  dazzling  fair, 
Sabina’s  easy  shape  and  air 
With  softer  magic  drew. 

He  haunts  the  stream,  he  haunts  the  grove, 
Lives  in  a fond  romance  of  love, 

And  seems  for  each  to  die ; 

Till,  each  a little  spiteful  grown, 

Sabina  Coelia’s  shape  ran  down, 

And  she  Sabina’s  eye. 

Their  envy  made  the  shepherd  find 
Those  eyes  which  love  could  only  blind ; 

So  set  the  lover  free  ; 

No  more  he  haunts  the  grove  or  stream, 

Or  with  a true-love  knot  and  name 
Engraves  a wounded  tree. 

“Ah,  Coelia!”  sly  Sabina  cried, 

“ Though  neither  love,  we’re  both  denied; 
Now,  to  support  the  sex’s  pride, 

Let  either  fix  the  dart.” 

“ Poor  girl,”  said  Coelia,  “ say  no  more ; 

For  should  the  swain  but  one  adore, 

That  spite  which  broke  his  chains  before 
Would  break  the  other’s  heart.” 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A WINDOW-PANE  AT  CHESTER. 

Dean  Swift. 

The  Dean  seems  to  have  been  roused  to  anger  at  Chester  by  the  extortion  of  his  landlord, 
if  we  may  judge  by  some  lines  beginning — 

My  landlord  is  civil, 

But  dear  as  the  d 1 ; 

Your  pockets  grow  empty, 

With  nothing  to  tempt  ye, 

And  his  rage  seems  to  have  been  inflated  to  the  degree  of  consigning  the  whole  population 
to  destruction,  as  follows : — 

The  walls  of  this  town 
Are  full  of  renown, 

And  strangers  delight  to  walk  round  ’em; 

But  as  for  the  dwellers, 

Both  buyers  and  sellers, 

For  me,  you  may  hang  ’em  or  drown  ’em. 


THE  WOMAN  OF  THREE  COWS. 

Translated  from  the  Irish,  by  Claeence  Mangan. 

This  ballad,  which  is  of  a homely  cast,  was  intended  as  a rebuke  to  the  saucy  pride  of  a 
woman  in  humble  life,  who  assumed  airs  of  consequence  from  being  the  possessor  of  three 
cows.  Its  author’s  name  is  unknown ; but  its  age  can  be  determined,  from  the  language, 
as  belonging  to  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  That  it  was  formerly  very 
popular  in  Munster  may  be  concluded  from  the  fact,  that  the  phrase,  “ Easy,  oh,  woman 
of  three  cows’’  has  become  a saying  in  that  province,  on  any  occasion  upon  which  it 
is  desirable  to  lower  the  pretensions  of  a boastful  or  consequential  person. — Translator's 
note. 

0 Woman  of  Three  Cows,  agragh ! don’t  let  yonr  tongue  thus  rattle ! 

0 don’t  he  saucy,  don’t  he  stiff,  because  you  may  have  cattle. 

1 have  seen — and,  here’s  my  hand  to  you,  I only  say  what’s  true — 

A many  a one  with  twice  your  stock  not  half  so  proud  as  you. 

Good  luck  to  you,  don’t  scorn  the  poor,  and  don’t  he  their  despiser, 
For  worldly  wealth  soon  melts  away,  and  cheats  the  very  miser; 

And  Death  soon  strips  the  proudest  wreath  from  haughty  hum  an  brows; 
Then  don’t  he  stiff’,  and  don’t  he  proud,  good  Woman  of  Three  Cows ! 

10 


194 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


See  where  Momonia’s*  heroes  lie,  proud  Owen  More’s  descendants, 
’Tis  they  that  won  the  glorious  name,  and  had  the  grand  attendants  ! 
If  they  were  forced  to  how  to  Fate,  as  every  mortal  bow's, 

Can  you  be  proud,  can  you  be  stiff,  my  Woman  of  Three  Cows  ? 

The  brave  sons  of  the  Lord  of  Clare,  they  left  the  land  to  mourning  ! 
Movrone  ! f for  they  were  banished,  writh  no  hope  of  their  returning — • 
Who  knows  in  what  abodes  of  want  those  youths  were  driven  to  house  ? 
Yet  you  can  give  yourself  these  airs,  0 Woman  of  Three  Cows ! 

Think  of  Donnell  of  the  Ships,  the  Chief  whom  nothing  daunted — 
See  how  he  fell  in  distant  Spain,  unchronicled,  unchanted ! 

He  sleeps,  the  great  O’Sullivan,  'where  thunder  cannot  rouse — 

Then  ask  yourself,  should  you  be  proud?  good  Woman  of  Three  Cows  ! 

O’Ruark,  Maguire,  those  souls  of  fire,  whose  names  are  shrined  in 
story — 

Think  how  their  high  achievement's  once  made  Erin’s  greatest  glory — 
Yet  now  their  bones  lie  mouldering  under  weeds  and  cypress  boughs, 
And  so,  for  all  your  pride,  will  yours,  0 Woman  of  Three  Cows  ! 

Th’  O’ Carrolls  also,  famed  when  fame  was  only  for  the  boldest, 

Best  in  forgotten  sepulchres  with  Erin’s  best  and  oldest ; 

Yet  who  so  great  as  they  of  yore  in  battle  or  carouse  ? 

Just  think  of  that,  and  hide  your  head,  good  Woman  of  Three  Cows! 

Your  neighbour’s  poor,  and  you  it  seems  are  big  with  vain  ideas, 
Because,  inayli  / J you’ve  got  three  cows — one  more,  I see,  than  she  has; 
That  tongue  of  yours  wags  more  at  times  than  charity  allows, 

But,  if  you’re  strong,  be  merciful,  great  Woman  of  Three  Cows  ! 

THE  SUMMING  UP. 

Now,  there  you  go ! you  still,  of  course,  keep  up  your  scornful  bearing; 
And  I’m  too  poor  to  hinder  you  ; but,  by  the  cloak  I’m  wearing, 

If  I had  but  four  cows  myself,  even  though  you  were  my  spouse, 

I’d  thwack  you  well  to  cure  your  pride,  my  Woman  of  Three  Cows  ! 

* Munster.  t My  grief.  % Forsooth. 

The  most  comical  piece  of  pride  I ever  heard  of  was  that  attributed  to  a Dublin  basket- 
woman  by  an  incensed  rival,  who  thus  accused  her: — “Bad  luck  to  your  impidence,  Moll 
Doyle ! — there’s  no  standin’  the  consait  o’  you  since  you  got  that  new  sthrap  to  your  baslcet.,' 
Mrs.  Doyle,  with  a disdainful  toss  of  her  head,  replied, — “ More  grandeur  to  met” 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


195 


MY  NATIVE  TOWN. 

Samuel  Lovee. 

We  have  heard  of  Charybdis  and  Scylla  of  old ; 

Of  Maelstrom  the  modern  enough  has  been  told  ; 

Of  Vesuvius’s  blazes  all  travellers  bold 
Have  established  the  bright  renown  : 

But  spite  of  what  ancients  or  moderns  have  said 
Of  whirlpools  so  deep,  or  volcanoes  so  red, 

The  place  of  all  others  on  earth  that  I dread 
Is  my  beautiful  native  town. 

Where  they  sneer  if  you’re  poor,  and  they  snarl  if  you’re  rich ; 
They  know  every  cut  that  you  make  in  your  hitch  ; 

If  your  hose  should  be  darn’d,  they  can  tell  every  stitch ; 

And  they  know  when  your  wife  got  a gown. 

The  old  one,  they  say,  was  made  new — for  the  brat ; 

And  they’re  sure  you  love  mice — for  you  can’t  keep  a cat ; 

In  the  hot  flame  of  scandal  how  blazes  the  fat, 

When  it  falls  in  your  native  town  ! 

If  a good  stream  of  blood  chance  to  run  in  your  veins, 

They  think  to  remember  it  not  worth  the  pains, 

For  losses  of  caste  are  to  them  all  the  gains, 

So  they  treasure  each  base  renown. 

If  your  mother  sold  apples — your  father  his  oath, 

And  was  cropp’d  of  his  ears — yet  you’ll  hear  of  them  both ; 
For  loathing  all  low  things  they  never  are  loath, 

In  your  virtuous  native  town. 

If  the  dangerous  heights  of  renown  you  should  try, 

And  give  all  the  laggards  below  the  go-by, 

For  fear  you’d  be  hurt  with  your  climbing  so  high, 

They’re  the  first  to  pull  you  down. 

Should  F ame  give  you  wings,  and  you  mount  in  despite, 

They  swear  Fame  is  wrong,  and  that  they’re  in  the  right, 

And  reckon  you  there — though  you’re  far  out  of  sight, 

Of  the  owls  of  your  native  town. 

Then  give  me  the  world,  boys ! that’s  open  and  wide, 

Where  honest  in  purpose,  and  honest  in  pride, 

You  are  taken  for  just  what  you're  worth  when  you’re  tried 
And  have  paid  your  reckoning  down. 

Your  coin’s  not  mistrusted — the  critical  scale 
Does  not  weigh  ev’ry  piece,  like  a huxter  at  sale ; 

The  mint-mark  is  on  it — although  it  might  fail 
To  pass  in  your  native  town. 


i 


196 


MORAL,  SENTIMENTAL,  AND  SATIRICAL  SONGS. 


TWELVE  ARTICLES. 

Dean-  Swift. 

I.  Lest  it  may  more  quarrels  breed, 

I will  never  hear  you  read. 

II.  By  disputing  I will  never, 

To  convince  you,  once  endeavour. 

III.  When  a paradox  you  stick  to, 

I will  never  contradict  you. 

IV.  When  I talk  and  you  are  heedless, 

I will  show  no  anger  needless. 

V.  When  your  speeches  are  absurd, 

I will  ne’er  object  a word. 

VI.  When  you,  furious,  argue  wrong, 

I will  grieve  and  hold  my  tongue. 

VII.  Not  a jest  or  humorous  story 
Will  I ever  tell  before  ye  : 

To  be  chidden  for  explaining, 

When  you  quite  mistake  the  meaning, 

VIII.  Never  more  will  I suppose 

Y ou  can  taste  my  verse  or  prose. 

IX.  You  no  more  at  me  shall  fret, 

While  I teach  and  you  forget. 

X.  You  shall  never  hear  me  thunder 
When  you  blunder  on,  and  blunder. 

XI.  Show  your  poverty  of  spirit, 

And  in  dress  place  all  your  merit ; 
Give  yourself  ten  thousand  airs  ; 

That  with  me  shall  break  no  squares. 

XII.  Never  will  I give  advice 

Till  you  please  to  ask  me  thrice : 
Which  if  you  in  scorn  reject, 

’Twill  be  just  as  I expect. 


)ye  of  country  and  love  of  arms  are 
common  to  all  mankind,  and  have  been 
held  in  honour  from  the  earliest  recorded 
times. 

If  such  a melody  as  that  which  makes 
the  Switzer  weep,  and  impels  him  to  his 
native  home,  he  not  the  possession  of  all 
lands,  there  is  some  key-note  which  has 
a lively  echo  in  the  heart  of  every  people, 
and  vibrates  to  the  call  of  country ; — 
something  else  as  potent  as  the  Hans  des 
Vaches  to  awaken  patriotism. 

How  charmingly  De  Beranger  makes 
the  bird  of  passage  serve  this  purpose  in 
his  exquisite  song  “Les  Hirondelles ! ” — 


198 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


44  Captif  au  rivage  du  Maure, 

Un  guerrier,  courbe  sous  ses  fers, 

Disait : Je  vous  revois  encore, 

Oiseaux  ennerais  des  hivers. 

Hirondelles,  que  l’esperance 

Suit  jusqu’en  ces  brulants  climats, 

Sans  doute  vous  quittez  la  France : 

De  mon  pays  ne  me  parlez  vous  pas  ?’* 

The  idea  of  the  poet,  in  this  first  verse  of  his  lovely  elegy,  was  veri- 
fied in  .fact ; for  M.  Perrotin  gives  a note  in  his  44  (Euvres  Com- 
pletes” of  Beranger,  telling  us  that  the  French  soldiers,  made  prisoners 
of  war  by  the  Arabs  in  the  late  Algerian  campaigns,  were  wont  to  sing 
this  song,  but  that,  before  its  conclusion,  tears  used  to  choke  their 
utterance. 

Not  only  is  love  of  country  universal,  but  it  is  the  impression  of 
every  people  that  their  own  country  is  the  best. 

“ Such  is  the  patriot’s  boast  where’er  we  roam — 

His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home.” 

Few  are  the  stoics  who  boast  of  being  citizens  of  the  world,  elevated 
above  what  they  are  pleased  to  call  the  prejudice  of  prizing  one 
nation  above  another ; whose  comprehensive  wisdom  affects  to  esti- 
mate the  whole  human  race  with  equal  consideration,  or,  rather,  pas- 
sionless indifference;  few  they  are,  and  well  they  are  so;  and  perhaps 
they  are  fewer  than  even  they  themselves  think : — why,  even  that 
worldly,  witty  maxim-writer,  Rochefoucauld,  in  the  midst  of  all 
his  satire,  and  sarcasm,  and  mistrust  of  human  virtue,  admits  the 
existence  of  that  of  patriotism,  and  in  terms  of  tenderness,  rare  with 
him — 

44  L’ accent  du  pays  ou  l’on  est  ne,  dcmeure  dans  1’ esprit  et  dans  le  coeur, 
comme  dans  la  language.” 

The  gentle  and  conscientious  Cowper  exclaims — 

“England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I love  thee  still — 

My  country !” 

"Which  apostrophe,  if  I remember  rightly,  the  proud  Byron  in  his 
angry  exile  quoted.  Again,  Byron  exhibits  recollections  of  England 
which  all  his  anger  could  not  quench,  thus — 

44  On,  on,  through  meadows,  managed  like  a garden, 

A paradise  of  hops  and  high  production  ; 

For,  after  years  of  travel  by  a bard  in 
Countries  of  greater  heat  but  lesser  suction, 


PATRIOTIC  ARD  MILITARY  SORGS. 


199 


A green  field  is  a sight  which  makes  him  pardon 
The  absence  of  that  more  sublime  construction, 

"Which  mixes  up  vines,  olives,  precipices, 

Glaciers,  volcanoes,  oranges,  and  ices.” 

And  then,  with  characteristic  versatility,  and  love  of  contrast  and  tho 
grotesque,  he  adds — 

“ And  when  I think  upon  a pot  of  beer 

But  I won’t  weep! ” 

But  through  this  veil  of  fun  peeps  out  a latent  love  of  country. 

As  for  the  love  of  arms,  that  is  evidently  inherent  in  our  nature, 
from  the  fact  of  children  playing  at  soldiers.  All  arms  are  imitated ; 
the  natural  state  of  infantry  is  not  enough ; Tommy  aspires  to  the 
cavalry;  his  gouty  grandpapa’s  cane,  used  to  soberer  paces,  is  con- 
verted into  a war-horse,  and  he  charges  round  the  room,  an  imagi- 
nary guardsman  ; while  Bobby,  who  affects  the  artillery,  is  boring  a 
hole  with  a spike  of  red-hot  iron  into  the  hone  of  some  timid  sheep’s 
trotter,  to  make  a cannon ; and  possibly  the  military  cocked-hats  of 
both  are  formed  out  of  some  whity-brown,  which  was  once  the  wrap- 
per of  some  parcel  from  the  shop  of  Obediah  Smallsoul,  of  the  Peace 
Society.  This  love  pervades  the  sports  of  riper  years ; it  has  coloured 
the  national  games  of  the  civilized  and  the  savage: — the  Pyrrhic 
dance  of  the  accomplished  Greek  has  its  counterpart,  even  now,  in 
the  war-dance  of  the  South-sea  Islander  and  the  American  Bed 
Indian.  This  love  “ grows  with  our  growth,  and  strengthens  with 
our  strength:” — to  be  a soldier  is  the  aspiration  of  most  young  men, 
a desire  too  often  disturbing  the  equanimity  of  some  long-headed 
father,  who  had  intended  for  his  young  Hotspur  a more  profitable 
pursuit.  And  this  admiration  of  the 

“ Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war,” 

is  shared  by  woman ; for,  if  she  cannot  be  a soldier  herself,  she  is 
most  ready  to  bestow  her  love  on  him  who  is  one : — and  this  feeling 
must  have  been  predominant  from  the  earliest  ages,  for  Pagan  records 
bear  evidence  of  it  in  the  myth  of  Mars  and  Yenus. 

Now,  these  two  passions  of  our  nature,  always  very  strong  in  the 
Irish,  became,  from  the  peculiarity  of  Ireland’s  political  position, 
accidentally  strengthened.  Nearly  up  to  the  end  of  the  last  century, 
the  great  mass  of  the  youth  of  Ireland  were  forbidden  the  honourable 
profession  of  arms  at  home,  and  were  thus  forced  to  leave  the  land 
they  loved  to  enjoy  the  forbidden  desire,  which  they  exercised  abroad; 
and,  in  his  exile,  the  love  of  the  Irishman  for  his  country  increased : — 


200 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


for  when,  do  we  love  our  country  so  much  as  when  we  are  absent 
from  it  ? Other  historic  evidence  might  he  given  to  account  for  an 
extra,  indeed  almost  morbid,  love  of  country,  on  the  part  of  the 
Irish.  The  Switzer  (already  alluded  to)  has  been  adduced  as  an 
example  of  patriotism  by  Goldsmith,  who  says  that  this  land  of  wild- 
ness, sterility,  and  poverty  is  not  the  less,  but  the  more  prized,  by 
the  native,  and  thus  accounts  for  it : — 

“ And  as  the  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 

Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother’s  breast, 

So  the  wild  torrent  and  the  whirlwind’s  roar 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more.” 

Now,  Ireland  is  not  sterile,  but  wild  enough  in  many  respects,  and 
has  been  (from  causes  not  of  her  own  engendering  and  beyond  her 
reach  to  cure)  too  long  impoverished,  and  the  physical  tempest  is  not 
less  potent  in  making  the  Switzer  cling  to  “the  mother’s  breast,’’ 
than  the  political  storm  has  been  in  similarly  attaching  the  Irish- 
man. I witnessed,  once,  a touching  proof  of  the  passionate  love  the 
Irish  peasant  bears  his  native  land.  A party  of  labourers  had  just 
arrived  in  the  packet-boat  from  England,  where  they  had  been  reap  - 
ing  the  wheat-harvest,  and  crowded  to  the  vessel’s  side,  eager  to 
jump  ashore;  and  when  they  did  so,  they  knelt  down  and  kissed 
their  mother  earth. 

As  for  their  gallant  bearing  as  soldiers,  the  annals  of  England’s 
wars  are  sufficient  testimony — whether  the  Irish  fought  for  or  against 
her;  and  the  recently-instituted  military  order — .the  Victoria  cross  of 
valour — gave  ample  evidence  in  its  first  distribution  of  the  same 
still- existing  valour  of  the  Irishman  on  the  battle-field.  And  here 
may  be  recorded  an  anecdote  of  an  Irish  regiment,  so  characteristic, 
in  every  way,  that  its  appropriateness  justifies  me,  I trust,  in  relating 
it,  without  my  being  open  to  the  charge  of  national  vaingloriousness. 
A fort  was  to  be  stormed;  the  day  looked  to  for  the  assault  was 
the  18th  of  March,  but  a request  was  forwarded  to  the  officer  in 
command  by  the  Irish  regiment,  suggesting  that  operations  might 
be  a little  hastened,  and  the  assault  delivered  on  the  17th — St. 
Patrick’s  day — in  which  case  the  whole  regiment  volunteered  to 
lead  the  attack,  as  they  would  like  “to  have  a bit  of  a skrim- 
mage,  and  do  something  for  the  honour  of  ould  Ireland  on  that 
day.”  The  request  was  complied  with,  and  at  day-break  on 
the  17th,  the  band  of  the  regiment  struck  up  “ St.  Patrick’s  Day  ;” 
and  to  that  lively  measure  away  they  went,  with  a ringing  cheer, 
and  the  fort  was  carried  “ in  no  time.”  Three  national  elements  of 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


201 


success  were  here ; — the  remembrance  of  Ireland  and  desire  to  do 
something  for  her  honour;  the  love  of  music;  and  tlip,t  soldierly  dash — 
that  1 1 military  glee,”  which  Scott  recognized  in  his  gallant  heart, 
and  recorded  with  his  glorious  pen.* 

Can  we  wonder,  then,  that  poets  should  be  inspired  with  two  such 
glorious  themes,  and  laud  the  land  that  bore  them,  and  glorify  the 
sword  that  guards  its  honour?  Perhaps,  in  doing  so,  they  sometimes 
shed  their  ink  as  recklessly  as  the  soldier  sheds  his  blood,  and  in 
their  sanguine  exuberance  indulge  in  a little  exaggeration  : — but,  in 
saying  this,  I do  not  mean  to  imply  that  the  Irishman  is  one  whit 
more  exalted  in  the  spirit  of  laudation  than  the  native  of  any  other 
country. 

Finally,  the  love  of  country  and  love  of  arms  have  been  honoured 
in  the  highest,  for  they  were  held  worthy  of  being  the  theme  of  holy 
writ.  Yes  : — the  love  of  country  is  a holy  thing,  for  thus  saith  the 
Psalmist — 

“By  the  waters  of  Babylon  we  sat  down  and  wept : when  we  remembered 
thee,  0 Sion. 

As  for  our  harps,  we  hanged  them  up.:  upon  the  trees  that  are  therein. 

For  they  that  had  led  us  away  captive  required  of  us  there  a song,  and  melody 
in  our  heaviness  : Sing  us  one  of  the  songs  of  Sion. 

IIow  shall  we  sing  the  Lord’s  song  : in  a strange  land  ? 

If  I forget  thee,  0 Jerusalem  : let  my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning.” 

And  thus  the  minstrel  king — the  smiter  of  the  giant — the  warrior 
poet,  thanks  the  Lord  of  Hosts  for  the  gift  of  a courageous  man- 
hood : — 

“ Blessed  be  the  Lord,  my  strength  : who  teacheth  my  hands  to  war,  and  my 
fingers  to  fight.” 

* Vide  Vision  of  Don  Roderic. 


10* 


202 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS, 


THE  IRISHMAN. 

James  Oee.  Air,  “Vive  la.” 

James  Orr  was  one  of  those  “ Men  of  the  North”  celebrated  in  that  remarkable  volume 
of  vigorous  verse,  “The  Spirit  of  the  Nation.”  He  was  a journeyman  weaver.  Now, 
weavers  have  been  down  in  the  market  ever  since  the  invention  of  looms — Shakspeare 
talks  ironically  of  drawing  “three  souls  out  of  one  weaver.”  But  our  Ulster  weaver 
redeemed  the  credit  of  his  class  by  his  deeds.  That  he  wrote  good  verses  the  following 
lines  prove;  and  he  fought  at  the  battle  of  Antrim,  in  1798; — so  that  he  had  the  true 
spirit  of  the  old  Troubadours  in  him,  being  equally  ready  to  wield  the  pen  or  the  sword. 
In  short,  he  had  a soul  for  business,  a soul  for  poetry,  and  a soul  for  fighting,  so  that  he 
may  have  been  the  very  weaver  Shakspeare  had  in  his  prophetic  eye — “ in  a fine  frenzy 
rolling  ” — when  he  spoke  of  drawing  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver. 

The  savage  loves  his  native  shore, 

Though  rude  the  soil,  and  chill  the  air ; 

Then  well  may  Erin’s  sons  adore 

Their  isle  Avhich  nature  formed  so  fair, 

"What  flood  reflects  a shore  so  sweet 
As  Shannon  great,  or  pastoral  BannP 
Or  who  a friend  or  foe  can  meet 
So  generous  as  an  Irishman  ? 

His  hand  is  rash,  his  heart  is  warm, 

But  honesty  is  still  his  guide ; 

None  more  repents  a deed  of  harm, 

And  none  forgives  with  nobler  pride : 

He  may  he  duped,  hut  won’t  be  dared — - 
More  fit  to  practise  than  to  plan  ; 

He  dearly  earns  his  poor  reward, 

And  spends  it  like  an  Irishman. 

If  strange  or  poor,  for  you  he’ll  pay, 

And  guide  to  where  you  safe  may  he  ; * 

If  you’re  his  guest,  while  e’er  you  stay 
His  cottage  holds  a jubilee. 

His  inmost  soul  he  will  unlock, 

And  if  he  may  your  secrets  scan, 

Your  confidence  he  scorns  to  mock — 

For  faithful  is  an  Irishman. 

* Many  a traveller  in  Ireland  has  proved  the  truth  of  this.  If  a stranger  loses  his  way 
and  inquires  it  of  an  Irish  peasant,  the  peasant  will  turn  back/or  mile$  qqt  pf  h|s  qwn  way 
to  put  the  stranger  securely  into  his, 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


203 


By  honour  bound  in  woe  or  weal,  • 

Whate’er  she  bids  he  dares  to  do ; 

Try  him  with  bribes — they  won’t  prevail ; 
Prove  him  in  fire — you’ll  find  him  true. 

He  seeks  not  safety,  let  his  post 

Be  where  it  ought, — in  danger’s  van ; 

And  if  the  field  of  fame  be  lost, 

It  won’t  be  by  an  Irishman. 

Erin  ! loved  land ! from  age  to  age 

Be  thou  more  great,  more  famed,  and  free ; 

May  peace  be  thine,  or,  shouldst  thou  wage 
Defensive  war — cheap  victory. 

May  plenty  bloom  in  every  field 
Which  gentle  breezes  softly  fan, 

And  cheerful  smiles  serenely  gild 
The  home  of  every  Irishman  ! 


TIIE  PLAINT  OF  THE  EXILE. 

John  O’Donoghue 


As  I stood  on  the  shore  of  the  stranger, 
When  day  was  at  rest — 

And  the  sun  was  declining  in  gold, 

To  his  throne  in  the  west — 

Dear  Erin ! I wept,  as  I gazed 
On  the  splendour-paved,  sea, 

And  I panted  to  trace  that  high  road 
Of  glory,  to  thee ! 

Tho’  far,  far  away  from  the  scenes 
Of  my  childhood  I roam — 

Oh ! can  I forget  thee  one  moment, 

My  dear  happy  home  ! 

Had  I but  thy  pinions,  bright  planet, 

How  swift  would  I fl.ee, 

For  an  instant  to  gaze,  though  ’twere  death, 
My  loved  Erin,  on  thee ! 

Shall  I ever  behold  thee  again  ? 

Will  the  future  restore 
One  glimpse  of  thy  valleys  and  hills 
Ere  my  sorrows  are  o’er  ? 


204 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


Kind  Heaven ! give  me  but  one  look 
■Ere  my  pilgrimage  cease — 

And  death  shall  come  o’er  the  last  throb 
Of  my  spirit  in  peace. 

These  lines,  though  of  no  great  literary  merit,  have  the  redeeming  grace  of  a strong 
love  of  native  land  in  them,  and  find  a place  here  for  that  reason.  The  entire  of  the  first 
verse  is  too  obviously  imitated  from  Moore’s  exquisite  lines — 

“ How  dear  to  me  the  hour  when  day-light  dies. 

And  sunbeams  melt  along  the  silent  sea ; 

For  then  sweet  dreams  of  other  days  arise, 

And  memory  breathes  her  vesper  sigh  to  thee. 

“And  as  I watch  the  line  of  light  that  plays 

Along  the  smooth  wave  tow’rd  the  burning  west, 

I long  to  tread  that  golden  path  of  rays, 

And  think  ’twould  lead  to  some  bright  isle  of  rest,” 


THE  IRISH  DRAGOON. 

Chables  Levee.  Air,  “ Sprig  of  Shillelah.” 

On,  love  is  the  soul  of  an  Irish  dragoon, 

In  battle,  in  bivouac,  or  in  saloon — 

From  the  tip  of  his  spur  to  his  bright  sabertasche. 
With  his  soldierly  gait  and  his  bearing  so  high, 

His  gay  laughing  look  and  his  light  speaking  eye, 

He  frowns  at  his  rival,  he  ogles  his  wench, 

He  springs  on  his  saddle  and  chasses  the  French — 
With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche. 

His  spirits  are  high  and  he  little  knows  care, 

Whether  sipping  his  claret  or  charging  a square — 
With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche. 
As  ready  to  sing  or  to  skirmish  he’s  found, 

To  take  off  his  wine  or  to  take  up  his  ground ; 

When  the  bugle  may  call  him  how  little  he  fears 
To  charge  forth  in  column  and  beat  the  Mounseers — 
With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche. 

When  the  battle  is  over  he  gaily  rides  back 
To  cheer  every  soul  in  the  night  bivouac — 

With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche. 
Oh  ! there  you  may  see  him  in  full  glory  crown’d, 

And  he  sits  ’mid  his  friends  on  the  hardly- won  ground, 
And  hear  with  what  feeling  the  toast  he  will  give, 

As  he  drinks  to  the  land  where  all  Irishmen  live — 
With  his  jingling  spur  and  his  bright  sabertasche. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


205 


WAP,  SONG  OF  O’DRISCOL. 

By  Geeald  Griffin- 

From  tlie  shieling  that  stands  by  the  lone  mountain  river, 
Hurry,  hurry  down,  with  the  axe  and  the  quiver  ; 

From  the  deep-seated  coom,*  from  the  storm-beaten  highland, 
Hurry,  hurry  down  to  the  shores  of  your  island. 

Hurry  down,  hurry  down ! 

Hurry  down,  &c. 

Galloglach  and  Kern,  hurry  down  to  the  sea — 

There  the  hungry  raven’s  beak  is  gaping  for  a prey. 

F arrah ! to  the  onset ! F arrah ! to  the  shore ! 

Feast  him  with  the  pirate’s  flesh,  the  bird  of  gloom  and  gore 
Hurry  down,  hurry  down ! 

Hurry  down,  &c. 

Hurry,  for  the  slaves  of  Bel  are  mustering  to  meet  ye ; 

Hurry  by  the  beaten  cliff,  the  Nordman  longs  to  greet  ye ; 
Hurry  from  the  mountain  ! hurry,  hurry  from  the  plain ! 
Welcome  him,  and  never  let  him  leave  our  land  again  ! 

Hurry  down,  hurry  down ! 

Hurry  down,  &c. 

On  the  land  a sulky  wolf,  and  in  the  sea  a shark, 

Hew  the  ruffian  spoiler  down,  and  burn  his  gory  bark ! 

Slayer  of  the  unresisting ! ravager  profane  ! 

Leave  the  white  sea-tyrant’s  limbs  to  moulder  on  the  plain. 
Hurry  down,  hurry  down 
Hurry  down,  &c. 

* A close  valley  between  abrupt  hills. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  WEST. 

Samuel  Lovee. 

Oh  ! come  to  the  West,  love — oh ! come  there  with  me ; 
’Tis  a sweet  land  of  verdure  that  springs  from  the  sea, 
Where  fair  Plenty  smiles  from  her  Emerald  throne  ; — 
Oh,  come  to  the  West,  and  I’ll  make  thee  my  own  ! 

I’ll  guard  thee,  I’ll  tend  thee,  I’ll  love  thee  the  best, 


206 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


The  South  has  its  roses  and  bright  skies  of  blue, 

But  ours  are  more  sweet  with  love’s  own  changeful  hue— 
Half  sunshine,  half  tears, — like  the  girl  I love  best ; 

Oh ! what  is  the  South  to  the  beautiful  West ! 

Then  come  to  the  West,  and  the  rose  on  thy  mouth 
Will  be  sweeter  to  me  than  the  iiow’rs  of  the  South ! 

The  North  has  its  snow-tow’rs  of  dazzling  array, 

All  sparkling  with  gems  in  the  ne’er-setting  day ; 

There  the  Storm  -king  may  dwell  in  the  halls  he  loves  best, 
But  the  soft- breathing  Zephyr  he  plays  in  the  West. 

Then  come  there  with  me,  where  no  cold  wind  doth  blow, 
And  thy  neck  will  seem  fairer  to  me  than  the  snow ! 

The  Sun,  in  the  gorgeous  East,  chaseth  the  night 
When  he  riseth,  refresh’d,  in  his  glory  and  might ; 

But  where  doth  he  go  when  he  seeks  his  sweet  rest  ? 

Oh ! doth  he  not  haste  to  the  beautiful  West  ? 

Then  come  there  with  me ; ’tis  the  land  I love  best, 

’Tis  the  land  of  my  sires ! — ’tis  my  own  darling  West ! 


BAD  LUCK  TO  THIS  MARCHING. 

Charles  Lever.  From  “ Charles  O’Malley.” 

Air,  “ Paddy  O’Carroll.” 

Bad  luck  to  this  marching, 

Pipeclaying  and  starching ; 

How  neat  one  must  be  to  be  killed  by  the  French  1 
I’m  sick  of  parading, 

Through  wet  and  cold  wading, 

Or  standing  all  night  to  be  shot  in  a trench. 

To  the  tune  of  a -fife 
They  dispose  of  your  life, 

You  surrender  your  soul  to  some  illigant  lilt ; 

Now  1 like  “ Oarryowen”* 

When  I hear  it  at  home, 

But  its  not  half  so  sweet  when  you’re  going  to  be  kilt. 

Then  though  up  late  and  early 
Our  pay  comes  so  rarely, 

The  devil  a farthing  we’ve  ever  to  spare  j 
They  say  some  disaster 
Befel  the  paymaster ; 

On  my  conscience  I think  that  the  money’s  not  there. 

9 A favourite  Irish  air,  and  also  a celebrated  locality  in  the  city  of  Limerick. 


PATEIOTIC  AND  MILITAEY  SONGS. 


207 


And,  just  think,  what  a blunder, 

They  won’t  let  us  plunder, 

While  the  convents  invite  us  to  rob  them,  ’tis  clear ; 

Though  there  isn’t  a village 
But  cries,  “ Come  and  pillage ! ” 

Yet  we  leave  all  the  mutton  behind  for  Mounseer.* 

Like  a sailor  that’s  nigh  land, 

I long  for  that  island 

Where  even  the  kisses  we  steal  if  we  please ; 

Where  it  is  no  disgrace 
If  you  don’t  wash  your  face, 

And  you’ve  nothing  to  do  but  to  stand  at  your  ease. 

With  no  sergeant  t’  abuse  us, 

We  fight  to  amuse  us, 

Sure  its  better  beat  Christians  than  kick  a baboon ; 

How  I’d  dance  like  a fairy 
To  see  ould  Dunleary,t 

And  think  twice  ere  I’d  leave  it  to  be  a dragoon ! 

* A capital  line  this — the  natural  comment  of  a hungry  soldier, — illustrating  a fact 
honourable  to  the  British  army  in  the  Peninsular  war. 

f A landing  place  in  Dublin  Bay— now  called  Kingstown,  in  commemoration  of  the  visit 
of  George  IV.,  as  “Passage,”  in  the  Cove  of  Cork,  goes  by  the  higher  “style  and  title”  of 
"Queenstown,”  since  the  visit  of  Her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria.  Dunleary,  of  old,  could 
afford  shelter  but  to  a few  fishing-boats  under  a small  pier.  The  harbour  of  Kingstown 
has  anchorage  within  its  capacious  sweep  of  masonry  for  ships  of  war;  in  fact,  it  is  one  of 
the  finest  works  in  the  British  dominions. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 

Here  is  a song  from  an  anonymous  poet  who  should  not  be  anonymous,  for  his  name 
deserves  a good  mark.  This  book  shows  how  rich  Ireland  is  in  poetic  talent.  Sprinkled 
through  these  leaves  we  have  scores  of  examples,  from  the  heights  of  fun  to  the  depths  of 
feeling,  from  anonymous  pens.  “ Each  mode  of  the  lyre”  is  run  through  with  an  intuitive 
grace,  by  these  amateur  minstrels,  that  might  make  a professor  envious. 

Why  are  thy  sons,  though  good  and  brave, 

A weak,  divided  band, 

Lorn  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 

My  native  land  ? 

Why  do  the  meanest  of  mankind 
liule  thy  green  isle,  with  iron  hand  ? 

Canst  thou  no  god-like  leader  hnd — 

No  Spartan  band 
Thy  galling  fetters  to  unbind— 

My  native  land  ? 


203 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SOXGS. 


The  traitor’s  spoil,  the  stranger’s  prey, 

Thy  helpless  people  stand  ; 

Unhonoured,  save  when  they  betray* 

Their  native  land. 

Still ! still ! they’re  doomed  to  writhe  and  weep, 
And  wildly  wring  the  hopeless  hand ; 

Far  happier,  should  the  wave  o’ersweep 
Thy  velvet  strand, 

And  whelm  thee  in  the  raging  deep — 

My  native  land ! 

* This  reminds  us  of  Moore’s  noble  quatrain : — 

“ Unprized  are  her  sons  till  they  learn  to  betray, 

Unnoticed  they  live  if  they  shame  not  their  sires, 

And  the  torch  that  would  light  them  thro’  dignity's  way 
Must  he  snatched  from  the  pile  where  their  country  expires.5' 


THE  GIRLS  OF  THE  WEST. 

Charles  Lever.  Air,  “Thady  ye  Gander.” 

You  may  talk,  if  you  please, 

Of  the  brown  Portuguese, 

But,  wherever  you  roam,  wherever  you  roam, 

You  nothing  will  meet 
Half  so  lovely  or  sweet 
As  the  girls  at  home,  the  girls  at  home. 

Their  eyes  are  not  sloes, 

Nor  so  long  is  their  nose, 

But  between  me  and  you,  between  me  and  you, 

They  are  just  as  alarming, 

And  ten  times  more  charming, 

With  hazel  and  blue,  with  hazel  and  blue. 

They  don’t  ogle  a man 
O’er  the  top  of  their  fan 

Till  his  heart’s  in  a liame,  his  heart’s  in  a flamo ; 
But  though  bashful  and  shy, 

They’ve  a look  in  their  eye, 

That  just  comes  to  the  same,  just  comes  to  the  same. 
No  mantillas  they  sport, 

But  a petticoat  short 

Shows  an  ancle  the  best,  an  ancle  the  best, 

And  a leg ; but,  0 murther ! 

I dare  not  go  further, 

So  here’s  to  the  West,  so  here’s  to  the  West. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


209 


FAIR-HILL’D,  PLEASANT  IRELAND. 

From  the  Irish. 

Take  a blessing  from  tlie  heart  of  a lonely  griever 
To  fair-hill’d,  pleasant  Ireland, 

To  the  glorious  seed  of  Ir  and  Eivir,* 

In  fair-hill’ d,  pleasant  Ireland, 

"Where  the  voice  of  birds  fills  the  wooded  vale, 

Like  the  morning  harp  o’er  the  fallen  Gael — 

And,  oh ! that  I pine  many  long  days’  sail 
From  fair-hill’d,  pleasant  Ireland! 

On  the  gentle  heights  are  soft  sweet  fountains, 

In  fair-hill’ d,  pleasant  Ireland  ; 

I would  choose  o’er  this  land  the  bleakest  mountains 
In  fair-hill’ d,  pleasant  Ireland — 

More  sweet  than  fingers  o’er  strings  of  song, 

The  lowing  of  cattle  the  vales  among, 

And  the  sun  smiling  down  upon  old  and  young, 

In  fair-hill’d  pleasant  Ireland ! 

There  are  numerous  hosts  at  the  trumpet’s  warning, 

In  fair-hill’d,  pleasant  Ireland ; 

And  warriors  bold,  all  danger  scorning, 

In  fair-hill’d,  pleasant  Ireland — 

Oh,  memory  sad ! oh,  tale  of  grief ! 

They  are  crush’d  by  the  stranger  past  all  relief; 

Nor  tower  nor  town  hath  its  native  chief,  f 
In  fair-hill’d,  pleasant  Ireland ! 

* Ileber,  Eiblier,  or  Eivir,  was  the  son  of  Ir,  who  was  the  second  son  of  Milesius.  A 
Milesian  descent,  of  which  the  Irish  are  so  proud,  is  something  like  the  pride  of  a Saxon 
descent  in  England,  (only  some  thousand  years  older) ; for  the  Milesians,  like  the  Saxons 
were  invaders,  overcome  in  time  by  stronger  invaders  than  themselves.  That  they  were 
invaders  is  evident  from  this  passage : “ Milesius  remembered  the  remarkable  prediction  o 
the  principal  Druid,  who  foretold  that  the  posterity  of  Gadelus  should  obtain  the  possession 
of  a western  island  (which  was  Ireland),  and  there  inhabit.”—  Keating.  Moore  celebrates 
this  point  in  the  ancient  history  of  Ireland  in  his  “ Song  of  Innisfail”  in  the  Irish  Melodies 
concluding  with  this  verse : — 

“ Then  turn’d  they  unto  the  Eastern  wave. 

Where  now  their  Day-God’s  eye 
A look  of  such  sunny  omen  gave 
As  lighted  up  sea  and  sky. 

Nor  frown  was  seen  thro’  sky  or  sea. 

Nor  tear  o’er  leaf  or  sod, 

When  first  on  their  Isle  of  Destiny 
Our  great  forefathers  trod.” 

But  though  thus,  according  t®  Moore,  the  morning  of  our  history  was  so  bright,  it  turned 
out  a very  rainy  evening  for  poor  Ireland  — but  it  is  clearing  up;  we  may  close  our  political 
umbrellas. 

f From  this  passage  it  is  evident  the  song  cannot  be  very  old,  though  there  is  an  antique 
air  about  it.  The  love  of  country  and  yearning  for  home  are  characteristically  expressed, 
and  certainly  very  touching,  in  this  ballad. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Rev.  Chaeles  Wolfe. 

The  Rev.  Charles  Wolfe,  a minister  of  the  Established  Church,  was  a native  of  Dublin. 
It  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  died  in  the  primp  of  manhood,  for  a youth  of  such  promise 
gave  hope  of  a distinguished  future.  He  furnished  another  evidence  to  the  truth  of 
that  apothegm  of  the  ancients, — “ Whom  the  gods  love  die  young.”  His  lines,  entitled  a3 
above,  at  first  appeared  anonymously,  and  created  such  general  admiration,  that,  along 
with  several  speculations  as  to  their  authorship,  not  a few  absolute  claims  were  made  for 
that  honour,  by  impudent  aspirants  for  fame.  Medwin,  in  his  “ Conversations  of  Lord 
Byron,”  asserts  his  belief  (among  the  speculators)  that  they  were  written  by  the  noble  poet, 
though  all  he  establishes  is  the  fact  that  they  were  admired  and  read  by  him.  Though 
the  extract  is  longer  than  is  desirable  to  be  given  in  a work  like  the  present,  yet  it  is  so 
pregnant  with  evidence  of  the  high  worth  at  which  Wolfe  was  rated  among  the  highest, 
that  I cannot  resist  giving  it,  as  tribute  due  to  his  memory. 

“ The  conversation  turned  after  dinner  on  the  lyrical  poetry  of  the  day,  and  a question 
arose  as  to  which  was  the  most  perfect  ode  that  had  been  produced.  Shelley  contended 
for  Coleridge’s  on  Switzerland,  beginning,  ‘Ye  clouds,’  &c.  &c. ; others  named  some  of 
Moore’s  Irish  Melodies,  and  Campbell’s  Hohenlinden;  and,  had  Lord  Byron  not  been 
present,  his  own  Invocation  to  Manfred,  or  Ode  to  Napoleon,  or  on  Prometheus,  might 
have  been  cited. 

“ ‘ Like  Gray,’  said  he,  * Campbell  smells  too  much  of  the  oil : he  is  never  satisfied  with 
what  he  does;  his  finest  things  have  been  spoiled  by  over-polish — the  sharpness  of  the 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


211 


outline  is  worn  off.  Like  paintings,  poems  may  be  too  highly-finished.  The  great  art  is 
effect,  no  matter  how  produced. 

“ ‘I  will  show  you  an  ode  you  have  never  seen,  that  I consider  little  inferior  to  the  best 
which  the  present  prolific  age  has  brought  forth.’  With  this  he  left  the  table,  almost 
before  the  cloth  was  removed,  and  returned  with  a magazine,  from  which  he  read  the 
following  lines  on  Sir  John  Moore’s  burial,  which  perhaps  require  no  apology  for  finding  a 
place  here.” 

Here  follow  the  stanzas,  after  which  Medwin  continues— “The  feeling  with  which  he 
recited  these  admirable  stanzas  I shall  never  forget.  After  he  had  come  to  an  end,  he 
repeated  the  third,  and  said  it  was  perfect,  particularly  the  lines — 

“ ‘ But  he  lay  like  a warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him.* 

“ ‘ I should  have  taken,’  said  Shelley,  * the  whole  for  a rough  sketch  of  Campbell’s.’ 

* No,’  replied  Lord  Byron ; ‘ Campbell  would  have  claimed  it,  if  it  had  been  his.’ 

“ I afterwards  had  reason  to  think  that  the  ode  was  Lord  Byron’s ; that  he  was  piqued  at 
none  of  his  own  being  mentioned;  and,  after  he  had  praised  the  verses  so  highly,  could 
not  own  them.  No  other  reason  can  be  assigned  for  his  not  acknowledging  himself  the 
author,  particularly  as  he  was  a great  admirer  of  General  Moore.” 

Here  we  have  Coleridge,  Campbell,  and  Moore  among  the  hypothetical  authors ; Byron 
and  Shelley,  as  admirers  and  conjecturers;  and,  after  all,  it  was  a young  Irishman  who 
produced  this  poem.  Such  literary  honour  is  worth  recording,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  the 
memory  of  the  departed  poet,  but  for  the  fame  of  the  land  that  gave  him  birth. 

Not  a drum  was  heard,  not  a funeral-note, 

As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried 

Not  a soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O’er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam’s  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollow’d  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smooth’d  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o’er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 


212 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


Lightly  they’ll  talk  of  the  spirit  that’s  gone, 

And  o’er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 

But  little  he’ll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring  ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field,  of  his  fame,  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a line,  we  raised  not  a stone — 

But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory ! 

I have  said,  many  claims  were  laid  to  the  authorship  of  this  ode,  but  they  were  all  soon 
silenced  by  the  indubitable  evidence  existing  as  to  the  real  author.  Among  the  pseudo 
claimants,  the  most  unfortunate  was  a certain  Dr.  Marshall,  whose  name  laid  him  open  to 
a very  funny  squib,  let  off  against  him  in  the  shape  of  a parody  on  the  ode,  setting  forth 
how  a certain  drunken  man  was  discovered  in  the  kennel, 

“ Where  he  lay  like  a gentleman  taking  a snooze, 

With  his  Marshall  cloak  around  him.” 

The  parody  is  too  good  to  be  lost  to  those  who  love  that  sort  of  fun,  but  respect  for  the 
noble  lines  of  the  original  forbids  placing  a parody  in  juxtaposition,  therefore  it  is  inserted 
in  the  Appendix,  with  some  other  information  on  the  subject-matter  of  the  burial  of  suffi- 
cient interest  to  be  recorded,  but  which  would  have  overloaded,  to  an  inconvenient  length, 
annotations  already  unusually  long. 


TO  THE  BATTLE,  MEN  OF  ERIN. 

Thomas  Campbell.  Air,  “ Beside  a Rath.” 

To  the  battle,  men  of  Erin, 

To  the  front  of  battle  go ; . 

Every  breast  the  shamrock  wearing 
Burns  to  meet  his  country’s  foe. 

What  though,  France,  thine  eagle  standard 
Spreading  terror  far  and  nigh, 

Over  Europe’s  skies  hath  wander’d 
On  the  wings  of  victory — 

Yet  thy  vauntings  us  dismay  not 
Tell  us  when  ye,  hand  to  hand, 

Ever  stood  the  charging  bay’ net 
Of  a right  true  Irish  band. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


213 


Erin,  when  the  swords  are  glancing 
In  the  dark  fight,  loves  to  see 
Foremost  still  her  plumage  dancing 
To  the  trumpet’s  jubilee. 

This  song  was  written  for  Bunting’s  “General  Collection  of  the  Ancient  Music  of 
Ireland.”  It  is  pleasant  to  see  a distinguished  Scotchman  celebrating  the  valour  of 
Ireland.  Campbell  must  have  had  a strong  feeling  for  Ireland,  or  he  could  not  have 
written  the  above ; still  less  that  finest  of  lyrics,  “ There  came  to  the  beach  a poor  Exile 
of  Erin.” 

Another  illustrious  Scotchman,  by  the  way,  pays  a high  tribute  to  the  military  glory  of 
Ireland : — 

“ Hark,  from  yon  stately  ranks  what  laughter  rings. 

Mingling  wild  mirth  with  war’s  loud  minstrelsy ; 

His  jest  which  each  blithe  comrade  round  him  flings. 

He  moves  to  death  with  military  glee. 

Boast  Erin,  boast  then,  fearless,  frank,  and  free. 

And  he,*  their  chieftain — strike  the  loudest  tone 
Of  thy  proud  harp,  Green  Isle — the  hero  is  thine  own !” 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  Vision  of  Don  lioderio. 

* The  Duke  of  Wellington. 


OH!  ERIN ! 

John  Dalton,  M.R.I.A, 

On ! Erin  ! in  thine  hour  of  need, 

Thy  warriors  wander  o’er  the  earth ; 

For  others’  liberties  they  bleed, 

Nor  guard  the  land  that  gave  them  birth: 

In  foreign  fields  it  is  their  doom, 

To  seek  their  fame — to  find  their  tomb.* 

For  them  no  friend  of  early  days 
A tear  of  kindred  grief  shall  shed : 

Nor  maiden’s  prayer,  nor  minstrel’s  lays, 

Shall  hallow  their  neglected  bed.j* 

They  sleep  beneath  the  silent  stone, 

To  country  lost — to  fame  unknown. 

* One  evil  consequence  of  the  penal  laws  was,  that  the  Irish  being  denied  the  exercise  of 
the  honourable  profession  of  arms  at  home,  (as  alluded  to  in  the  introduction  to  this  sec- 
tion,) the  high-mettled  youth  of  the  land  were  driven  to  take  service  under  foreign  banners; 
and  England  had  often  to  regret  the  valour  of  such  soldiers  as  their  foes  in  defeat  (as  at 
Fontenoy,  for  instance),  instead  of  rejoicing  in  it,  as  their  friends  in  victory,  which  they 
have  since  done  on  many  a well-fought  field  in  the  last  half  century. 

f Here,  I think,  my  friend  Mr.  Dalton  does  not  justice  to  himself  and  his  brother  poets 
of  Ireland;  for,  however  hard  was  the  lot  of  the  expatriated  Irish  soldier,  his  story  has  not 
been  “neglected,”  nor  his  valour  unsung  by  the  bard. 


SOG GARTH  AROON. 

John  Banim.  Born,  1798.  Died,  1842. 

The  name  of  John  Banim  stands  high  in  the  record  of  Irish  literature.  His  tale  of 
“ Crohore  na  lilhoge  ” is  of  wondrous  power;  as,  also,  his  “ Ghost  Hunter.”  His  tragedy  of 
“ Damon  and  Pythias  ” is  of  high  merit.  Many  more  of  his  works  might  be  named,  but  it 
is  unnecessary  here.  In  the  lyric  vein,  Mr.  Banim  is  not  so  felicitous  as  in  other  forms  of 
composition ; but  his  knowledge  of  Irish  character,  strength  of  feeling,  and  vigorous  ex- 
pression, are  valuable  counterpoises  against  blemishes  of  versification  and  carelessness  of 
construction.  The  following  address  of  the  Irish  peasant  to  his  priest  is  full  of  nature,  and 
vividly  and  forcibly  expresses  the  sources  and  the  strength  of  the  ties  that  exist  between 
them. 


Am  I the  slave  they  say, 
Soggarth  aroon  ?* 

Since  you  did  show  the  way, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Their  slave  no  more  to  he, 

While  they  would  work  with  me 
Ould  Ireland’s  slavery, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 


* Priest  dear. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


215 


Why  not  her  poorest  man, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Try  and.  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 

Her  commands  to  fulfil 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will, 

Side  by  side  with  you  still, 
Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Yet  he  no  slave  to  you, 
Soggarth  aroon, — 

Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 

Stand  up  so  near  to  you— 

Och ! out  of  fear  to  you  ! 
Soggarth  aroon ! 

Who,  in  the  winter’s  night, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

When  the  could  blast  did  bite, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Came  to  my  cabin-door, 

And,  on  my  earthen-fiure 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 
Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage-day, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 
Soggarth  aroon — 

And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 

At  the  poor  christening, 
Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Never  did  fiout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

‘ 11  1 


What  I should  give  to  him,f 
Soggarth  aroon  ? 


t The  Irish  Roman  Catholic  priest  is  supported  by  voluntary  contributions  from  his 
flock ; but  here,  (as  in  many  cases,)  the  priest  reverses  the  order  of  giving,  and  bestows 
charity  on  the  poor  peasant. 


216 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS, 


Ocli ! you,  and  only  you, 
Soggarth  aroon ! 

And  for  this  I was  true  to  you, 
Soggarth  aroon ; 

In  love  they’ll  never  shake, 
When  for  ould  Ireland’s  sake 
We  a true  part  did  take, 
Soggarth  aroon ! 


THE  TRIUMPHS  OF  O’NEILL. 


W.  H.  Maxwell. 

Among  tlie  essayists,  sketehers,  story-tellers,  and  novellists,  Maxwell’s  name  shines 
brightly.  The  soldier,  the  sportsman,  and  the  man  of  the  world,  formed  a triumvirate 
in  his  person  which  gave  a racy  variety  to  his  works;  and  his  “ Stories  of  Waterloo,”  his 
“ Wild  Sports  of  the  West,”  and  that  stirring  and  most  amusing  tale  “ My  Life,”  display 
that  triplicity.  His  pen  was  prolific — or  I should  rather  say  his  pencil— for  it  is  a fact, 
within  my  own  knowledge,  that  he  dashed  off  his  copy  for  the  press  with  a black-lead 
pencil,  which  he  declared  was  a much  pleasanter  and  more  facile  mode  of  rapid  writing 
than  pen  and  ink.  He  held  a prebend  in  the  Established  Church  of  Ireland,  but  the 
exuberance  of  his  animal  spirits  hurried  him,  sometimes,  beyond  the  usual  limits  of 
clerical  phraseology.  Let  us  remember,  however,  he  had  been  a soldier  in  early  life,  as  a 
plea  in  extenuation.  There  is  an  old  slang  mode  of  expression  employed,  when  a man  who 
has  been  educated  for  the  Church  goes  into  the  army; — they  say,  in  such  case,  that 
**  the  lobster  has  been  boiled : ” that  is  to  say,  black  has  been  turned  red.  But,  in  the  reverse 
of  the  case,  when  a retired  soldier  turns  clergyman,  I fear  it  is  very  hard  to  tmboil  him — 
turn  red  into  black.  Maxwell  seldom  indulged  in  verse  ; his  highest  gifts  of  authorsliip 
were  exhibited  in  his  prose. 

The  song  is  hushed  in  Bala’s  hall, 

The  beacon’s  cold  upon  the  steep, 

The  steed  has  left  the  empty  stall, 

The  banner’s  sunk  upon  the  keep  : 

The  knight  upon  Lough  Neagh’s  shore 
Has  laid  aside  the  glittering  steel ; 

And  minstrel  strikes  the  harp  no  more, 

To  tell  the  triumphs  of  O’Neill. 

The  day  will  come — the  day  will  come — 

When  vengeance,  bursting  from  her  trance, 

Shall  sound  the  trump,  and  strike  the  drum, 

And  point  the  gun,  and  couch  the  lance ! 

While  from  hill- top  and  woodland  den,. 

The  smothered  war-cry  loud  shall  peal— 

And  gray  morass,  and  mountain  glen, 

Echo  the  triumphs  of  O’Neill ! 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


217 


TIIE  BOYS  OF  THE  IRISH  BRIGADE. 

Mrs.  Gore. 

This  lively  song  was  written,  by  the  fair  and  gifted  authoress,  who  has  favoured  the 
world  with  so  many  clever  novels,  for  a dramatic  piece  she  produced  for  the  lamented 
Power,  entitled  “ King  O’Neill.”  The  scene  is  laid  in  Paris  in  the  time  of  Louis  XV. 
O’Neill  is  an  exiled  Irishman,  an  officer  in  the  famous  Irish  Brigade,  who,  whenever  he  is 
over-excited  by  wine,  fancies  himself  possessed  of  all  the  regal  power  his  ancestors  onco 
enjoyed;  and  hence  much  amusement  arises.  It  is  in  a scene  at  the  mess  of  the  Brigade 
the  following  song  is  sung,  where  O’Neill  is  floating  himself  up,  upon  claret,  to  the  summit- 
level  of  his  regal  delusion. 

What  for  should  I sing'  you  of  Roman  or  Greek, 

Or  the  boys  we  hear  tell  of  in  story  ? 

Come  match  me  for  fighting,  for  frolic,  or  freak, 

An  Irishman’s  reign  in  his  glory ; 

For  Ajax,  and  Hector,  and  hold  Agamemnon 
Were  up  to  the  tricks  of  our  trade,  0, 

But  the  rollicking  hoys,  for  war,  ladies  and  noise, 

Are  the  boys  of  the  Irish  Brigade,  0 ! 

What  for  should  I sing  you  of  Helen  of  Troy, 

Or  the  mischief  that  came  by  her  flirting  ? 

There’s  Biddy  M’Clinchy  the  pride  of  Fermoy, 

Twice  as  much  of  a Helen,  that’s  certain. 

Then  for  Venus,  so  famous,  or  Queen  Cleopatra, 

Bad  luck  to  the  word  should  be  said,  0, 

By  the  rollicking  boys,  for  war,  ladies  and  noise-, — 

The  boys  of  the  Irish  Brigade,  0 ! 

What  for  should  I sing  you  of  classical  fun, 

Or  of  games,  whether  Grecian  or  Persian  ? 

Sure  the  Curragh’s*  the  place  where  the  knowing  one’s  done, 
And  Mallowf  that  flogs  for  diversion. 

For  fighting,  for  drinking,  for  ladies  and  all, 

Ho  time  like  our  times  e’er  were  made,  0, 

By  the  rollicking  boys,  for  war,  ladies  and  noise, — 

The  boys  of  the  Irish  Brigade,  0 ! 

* The  Curragh  is  au  extensive  plain  in  the  county  of  Kildare,  whereon  is  the  finest  race- 
course in  the  United  Kingdom. 

t See  “ The  Rakes  of  Mallow”  in  this  collection. 

The  myth  of  Venus  and  Mars  (already  alluded  to  in  the  introduction  to  this  section)  was 
but  the  emblematizing  of  a sentiment  that  has  pervaded  the  world  since  its  creation. 
A woman  likes  and  lauds  a soldier — not  for  his  handsome  dress,  as  some  people  have 
unworthily  hinted ; no— it  is  because  his  noble  profession  implies  courage.  Fielding  says, 
with  his  usual  acuteness,  that  as  a woman  is  by  nature  timid,  she  values  that  most  highly 
which  she  does  not  possess  herself;  and,  therefore,  no  quality  in  man  she  so  much  admires 
as  courage.  Hence,  we  opine,  the  fair  authoress’s  laudatory  lyric  of  “ The  Boys  of  tho 
Brigade.” 


11 


THE  BIYOUAC. 

Charles  Lever.  From  “ Charles  O'Malley.” 

Air,  “Garryowen.” 

How  that  we’ve  pledged  each  eye  of  blue, 
And  every  maiden  fair  and  true, 

And  our  green  island  home — to  you 
The  ocean’s  wave  adorning, 

Let’s  give  one  hip,  hip,  hip,  hurra ! 

And  drink  e’en  to  the  coming  day, 

When  squadron  square 
We’ll  all  be  there  ! 

To  meet  the  Erench  in  the  morning. 

May  his  bright  laurels  never  fade, 

Who  leads  our  fighting  fifth  brigade, 
Those  lads  so  true  in  heart  and  blade, 

And  famed  for  danger  scorning  ; 

So  join  me  in  one  hip,  hurra ! 

And  drink  e’en  to  the  coming  day, 

When  squadron  square 
We’ll  all  be  there  ! 

To  meet  the  French  in  the  morning. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


219 


And  when  with  years  and  honours  crowned, 
You  sit  some  homeward  hearth  around, 

And  hear  no  more  the  stirring  sound 
That  spoke  the  trumpet’s  warning  ; 

You’ll  fill,  and  drink,  one  hip,  hurra ! 

And  pledge  the  memory  of  the  day, 

When  squadron  square 
They  all  weredhere 
To  meet  the  French  in  the  morning. 


TIIE  BOWLD  SOJEll  BOY. 

Samuel  Loveb. 

Oil,  there’s  not  a trade  that’s  going, 

Worth  showing, 

Or  knowing, 

Like  that  from  glory  growing, 

For  a bowld  sojer  boy  ; 
Where  right  or  left  we  go, 

Sure  you  know, 

Friend  or  foe 

Will  have  the  hand — or  toe, 

From  a bowld  sojer  boy  ! 
There’s  not  a town  we  march  through, 

But  the  ladies,  looking  arch  through 
The  window-panes,  will  search  through 

The  ranks  to  find  their  joy ; 
While  up  the  street, 

Each  girl  you  meet, 

With  look  so  sly, 

Will  cry 
‘ ‘ My  eye ! 

Oh  ! isn’t  he  a darling — the  bowld  sojer  boy-!  ” 

But  when  we  get  the  route, 

How  they  pout, 

And  they  shout, 

While  to  the  right  about 

Goes  the  bowld  sojer  boy ; 
’Tis  then  that  ladies  fair, 

In  despair 
Tear  their  hair, 

But  the  div’l  a one  I care, 

Says  the  bowld  sojer  boy ; 


220 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


For  the  world  is  all  before  us, 

Where  the  landladies  adore  us, 

And  ne’er  refuse  to  score  us, 

But  chalk  us  up  with  joy  ; 
W e taste  her  tap, 

We  tear  her  cap, 

“ Oh,  that’s  the  chap 
For  me,” 

Says  she, 

“ Oh,  isn’t  he  a darling — the  bowld  sojer  boy.” 

Then  come  along  with  me, 

Gramachree, 

And  you’ll  see 
How  happy  you  will  be 

With  your  bowld  sojer  boy  ; 
Faith,  if  you’re  up  to  fun, 

With  me  run, 

’Twill  be  done 

In  the  snapping  of  a gun, 

Says  the  bowld  sojer  boy ; 
And  ’tis  then  that  without  scandal 
Myself  will  proudly  dandle 
The  little  farthing  candle 

Of  our  mutual  flame,  my  joy 
May  his  light  shine 
As  bright  as  mine, 

Till  in  the  line 
He’ll  blaze 
And  raise 

The  glory  of  his  corps,  like  a bowld  sojer  boy ! 


THE  BANSHEE’S  WAIL. 

Mrs.  Downing. 

Thy  life  was  like  the  mountain  stream, 
That  in  the  rocky  dell  has  birth, 

Now  rushing,  while  its  waters  gleam, 
Exulting  in  the  sun’s  warm  beam ; 

And,  when  its  wild  waves  brightest  seem, 
Dark  sinking  in  its  native  earth. 

Who,  now,  shall  bid  the  clansmen  speed 
.The  signal  and  the  gathering- cry  Y 
Who,  now,  shall  rein  the  stalworth  steed  ? 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


221 


Who,  now,  shall  urge  the  glorious  deed  ? 

Who,  now,  the  warrior  clans  shall  lead, 

When  the  battle-shout  is  nigh  ? 

Though  many  a noble  one  lies  dead — 

Though  groaning  heaps  around  thee  lie — 

Though  many  a gallant  chief,  who  led 
His  clans,  o’er  night,  has  bravely  hied ; 

Though  many  a daring  soul  has  lied — 

Yet,  oh ! what  were  they  all  to  thee  ? 

The  day-beam  breaks  on  the  green  hill  side, 

And  gleams  o’er  hill  and  river  ; 

And  the  Saxon  banner  is  floating  wide — 

With  the  blood  of  the  hapless  heroes  dyed  ; 

But  M‘Caura’s  boast,  and  M'Caura’s  pride,* 

Is  faded,  and  lost,  for  ever. 

* M'Caura  is  the  ancient  name  of  M'Carthy.  The  fair  authoress  seems  to  take  a deep 
interest  in  the  valiant  sept  of  M'Caura;— see  her  song  of  “ The  Mother  to  her  Son,”  in  this 
collection. 


WHEN  THIS  OLD  CAP  WAS  NEW. 

Samuel  Ferguson,  M.R.I.A. 

Since  this  old  cap  was  new, 

Now  lifty-two  long  years, 

(It  was  at  the  review 

Of  the  Dublin  Volunteers,) 

There  have  been  brought  to  pass 
With  us  a change  or  two ; 

They’re  altered  times,  alas  ! 

Since  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Our  Parliament  did  sit 
Then  in  our  native  land, 

What  good  came  of  the  loss  of  it 
I cannot  understand ; 

Although  full  plain  I §ee 
That  changes  not  a few 
Have  fallen  on  the  countrie 
Since  this  old  cap  was  new. 

They  are  very  worthy  fellows 
(And  much  I’d  be  distrest 
To  think  them  else)  who  tell  us 
That  all  is  for  the  best ; 


222 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS, 


Though,  full  as  ill  inclined, 

Now  the  bargain’s  closed,  to  rue, 
Yet  I can’t  but  call  the  times  to  mind 
When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

What  rights  we  wanted  then 
Were  asked  for  above  board. 

By  a hundred  thousand  gentlemen, 
And  render’d  at  the  word. 

’Twas  thus  in  fair  day-light, 

With  all  the  world  to  view, 

We  claimed  and  gained  our  right, 
When  this  old  cap  was  new ! * 

But  patriots  now-a-days, 

And  state  reformers,  when 
A starving  people’s  cry  they  raise, 
Turn  out  like  trenchermen. 

Ah ! we’d  have  done  the  work, 

If  it  had  been  to  do, 

With  other  tool  than  spoon  or  fork, 
When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

The  nobles  of  the  country 

AVere  then  our  neighbours  near, 
And  ’mong  us  squires  and  gentry 
Made  always  jolly  cheer ! 

Ah  ! every  night,  at  some  one’s 
Or  other’s,  was  a crew 
Of  merry  lords  and  commons, 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

They’re  altered  times  entirely, 

As  plainly  now  appears ; 

Our  landlord’s  face  we  barely  see 
Past  once  in  seven  years. 

And  now  the  man  meets  scorn 
As  his  coat  is  green  or  blue ; 

We  had  no  need  our  coats  to  turn 
When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Good  counsel  to  propose 
I have  but  little  skill ; 

Yet,  ere  a vain  lament  I close, 

In  humble  trust,  I will 


* This  refers  to  the  Declaration  of  Irish  Independence  in  1782;  which  is  alluded  to, 
more  fully,  in  a note  to  “ Our  Island showing,  by  this  repeated  reference,  how  fondly- 
cherished  is  the  memory  of  that  glorious  event. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


223 


Beseech  for  all  His  aid, 

Who  knows  what  all  should  do  ; 

And  pray,  as  I have  often  prayed, 

When  this  old  cap  was  new. 

Among  the  “Roxburgh  Songs  and  Ballads”  there  is  a black-letter  copy  of  a song 
entitled  “When  this  old  Cap  was  new,”  dated  A.D.  1666,  the  author  unknown.  Mr.  Fer- 
guson has  adopted  only  the  title  and  the  manner  of  this  old  song ; the  matter  is  perfectly 
original,  and  very  superior  to  the  old  model. 


CUSHLA  MA  CHREE. 

Right  Hon.  John  Philpot  Curran. 

Air,  “ The  Bank  of  Green  Rushes.” 

Dear  Erin,  how  sweetly  thy  green  bosom  rises, 

An  emerald  set  in  the  ring  of  the  sea, 

Each  blade  of  thy  meadows  my  faithful  heart  prizes, 
Thou  queen  of  the  west,  the  world’s  cushla  ma  chree .* 
Thy  gates  open  wide  to  the  poor  and  the  stranger — 
There  smiles  hospitality,  hearty  and  free  ; 

Thy  friendship  is  seen  in  the  moment  of  danger, 

And  the  wand’rer  is  welcomed  with  cushla  ma  chree. 

Thy  sons  they  are  brave  ; hut,  the  battle  once  over, 

In  brotherly  peace  with  their  foes  they  agree, 

And  the  roseate  cheeks  of  thy  daughters  discover 
The  soul-speaking  blush  that  says  cushla  ma  chree. 
Then,  flourish  for  ever,  my  dear  native  Erin, 

While  sadly  I wander,  an  exile  from  thee, 

And,  firm  as  thy  mountains,  no  injury  fearing, 

May  Heaven  defend  its  own  cushla  ma  chree  ! 

* Pulse  of  my  heart. 


TnE  IRISH  MAIDEN’S  SONG. 

John  Banim. 

You  know  it,  now — it  is  betray’d 
This  moment — in  mine  eye — 

And  in  my  young  cheek’s  crimson  shade, 
And  in  my  whisper’d  sigh ; 

You  know  it,  now — yet  listen,  now — 
Though  ne’er  was  love  more  true, 

My  plight  and  troth,  and  virgin  vow, 
Still,  still  I keep  from  you, 


Ever- 


224 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


Ever,  until  a proof  you  give 
How  oft  you’ve  heard  me  say 
I would  not  e’en  his  empress  live, 

Who  idles  life  away 
Without  one  effort  for  the  land, 

In  which  my  fathers’  graves 
Were  hollow’d  by  a despot  hand — 

To  darkly  close  on  slaves 

Never! 

See ! round  yourself  the  shacldes  hang, 

Yet  come  you  to  Love’s  bowers, 

That  only  he  may  soothe  their  pang, 

Or  hide  their  links  in  flowers ; — 

But  try  all  things  to  snap  them,  first, 

And  should  all  fail,  when  tried, 

The  fated  chain  you  cannot  burst 
My  twining  arms  shall  hide 

Ever! 

In  these  lines  we  see  again  Mr.  Banim’s  inequality  and  want  of  mastery  in  lyric  com- 
position; but  he  is  happier  than  usual  throughout  the  last  verse,  particularly  in  the  two 
final  lines,  which  are  exquisitely  touching  in  feeling,  and  perfect  in  execution. 


C> 

THE  PICQUETS  ABE  EAST  BETBEATING,  BOYS. 

Charles  Lever.  Prom  “Charles  O’Malley.” 

Air,  “The  Young  May  Moon.” 

The  picquets  are  fast  retreating,  hoys, 

The  last  tattoo  is  heating,  hoys ; 

So  let  every  man 
Finish,  his  can, 

And  drink  to  our  next  merry  meeting,  hoys ! 

The  colonel  so  gaily  prancing,  hoys, 

Jlas  a wonderful  trick  of  advancing,  hoys ; 

When  he  sings  out  §o  large, 

“Fix  bayonets  and  charge ! ” 

He  sets  all  the  Frenchmen  a-dancing,  hoys ! 

Let  Mounseer  look  ever  so  hig,  my  hoys, 

Who  cares  for  fighting  a fig,  my  boys  P 
When  we  play  “ Garryowen  ” 

He’d  rather  go  home, 

For  j§Qmphow  he’s  no  taste  for  a jig,  my  hoys. 


THE  MOTHER  TO  HER  SOX. 

Mrs.  DowuiifG. 

Speed  thee  hoy  ! the  battle  cry 
Already  echoes  through  the  glen  ; 

And  freemen’s  swords  are  flashing  high 
In  Erin’s  sacred  cause  again  ; 

From  rocky  dale,  from  sunny  vale, 

From  rugged  mountain’s  craggy  brow, 
Her  warrior  sons,  in  gleaming  mail, 

Are  rushing  at  the  signal  now. 

Speed  thee  boy ! thy  hand  is  weak, 

’Twas  never  yet  in  battle  tried ; 

The  down  of  youth  is  on  thy  cheek, 

But  think  on  how  thy  father  died. 

Away — the  clans  are  rushing  by ; 

The  Saxon  thunders  on  the  plains  ; 
O’Nial’s  Are  is  in  thine  eye  : 

McCaura’s  blood  is  in  thy  veins. 

Hay,  check  not,  boy,  those  manly  tears ! 

The  heart  that  often  flercest  proves — 
That  braves  the  death-field  without  fears — 
May  weep  to  part  from  those  it  loves. 

11* 


226 


PATRIOTIC  A YD  MILITARY  SOYGS. 


And  heed  not  mine,  they’ve  fall’n  before, 

When  from  my  side  thy  father  lied ; 
Remember  ’mid  the  battle’s  roar 
The  sacred  cause  for  which  he  bled. 

Away,  hoy ! he  thy  bosom  strong ; 

Again  is  pealed  the  signal  word, 

And,  now,  the  foeman  pours  along — 

And,  now,  the  clash  of  war  is  heard  I 
Away  ! — amid  the  battle  wild, 

O’Nial’s  glittering  steel  will  tell, 

When  brandished  by  McCaura’s*  child — 

Speed  thee,  my  boy ! — farewell ! — farewell ! 

* Mrs.  Downing  loves  the  theme  of  MacCarthy,  MeCaura  being  MaeCarthy. 


A SOLDIER  TO-NIGHT  IS  OUR  GUEST. 

GEBALD  G BIFFIN’. 

At  a time  like  the  present,  when  our  heroes  of  the  Crimea  have  been  received  with  such 
affectionate  welcome,  and  banquetted  in  the  principal  cities  of  the  kingdom,  on  their  return, 
these  lines  have  an  additional  value  in  the  temporary  interest  which  thus  attaches  to  them. 
How  our  Irish  bard  would  have  rejoiced  had  he  been  a living  witness  of  that  Crimean 
banquet  given  in  Dublin  to  the  returned  conquerors,  that  banquet  upon  which  I cannot 
resist  congratulating  my  native  city,  as  being  the  largest,  the  most  complete,  handsomely 
provided,  and  most  complimentary  in  all  respects  to  the  army,  of  all  the  similar  testimonials 
throughout  the  kingdom.  There  the  highest  in  the  land  sat  down  to  the  same  feast  with 
the  private  soldier.  The  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland*  proposed  the  toast  to  their  honour, 
and  that  address  was  so  surpassingly  fine  as  to  put  all  others  of  the  kind  into  the  shade. 

Fay,  fan  the  gay  hearth,  and  fling  back  the  barr’d  door, 

Strew,  strew  the  fresh  rushes  around  on  the  floor, 

And  blithe  be  the  welcome  in  every  breast 
For  a soldier — a soldier  to-night  is  our  guest. 

All  honour  to  him  who,  when  danger  afar 
Had  lighted  for  ruin  his  ominous  star, 

Left  pleasure,  and  country,  and  kindred  behind, 

And  sped  to  the  shock  on  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

If  you  value  the  blessings  that  shine  at  our  hearth — 

The  wife’s  smiling  welcome,  the  infant’s  sweet  mirth — 

"While  they  charm  us  at  eve,  let  us  think  upon  those 
Who  have  bought  with  their  blood  our  domestic  repose. 


• The  Right  Honourable  the  Earl  of  Carlisle. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


227 


Then  share  with  the  soldier  your  hearth  and  your  home, 
And  warm  be  your  greeting  whene’er  he  shall  come ; 

Let  love  light  a welcome  in  every  breast 
For  a soldier — a soldier  to-night  is  our  guest. 


O’ BYRNE’S  BARD  TO  THE  CLANS  OF  WICKLOW. 

Translated  from  tlie  Irish,  by  Samuel  Feegusox,  M.R.I.A. 

God  he  with  the  Irish  host ! 

Never  he  their  battle  lost ! 

For,  in  battle,  never  yet 
Have  they  basely  earned  defeat. 

Host  of  armour,  red  and  bright, 

May  ye  fight  a valiant  fight ! 

For  the  green  spot  of  the  earth, 

For  the  land  that  gave  you  birth. 

Who  in  Erin’s  cause  would  stand 
Brother  of  avenging  hand, 

He  must  wed  immortal  quarrel, 

Pain  and  sweat,  and  bloody  peril. 

On  the  mountain  bare  and  steep, 

Snatching  short  but  pleasant  sleep, 

Then,  ere  sunrise,  from  his  eyrie, 

Swooping  on  the  Saxon  quarry.  * 

What  although  you’ve  failed  to  keep 
Liifey’s  plain  or  Tara’s  steep, 

Cashel’s  pleasant  streams  to  save, 

Or  the  meads  of  Cruachan  Maev. 

* The  Clans  of  Wicklow  were  very  troublesome  neighbours  to  the  English  Pale.  Their 
impending  power  and  hardy  mountaineer  resistance  are  noticed  by  Spencer.  He  says, 
“ They  are  so  far  emboldened  that  they  threaten  peril  even  to  Dublin,  over  whose  neck  they 
continually  hang.”  He  then  alludes  to  “ the  great  strength  and  fastness  ol  Glen  Malor” 
(Glenmalure,  county  Wicklow),  and  further  on  he  commemorates  one  Feagh  Mac-Hugh 
as  having  drawn  unto  him  “many  thieves  and  outlaws,  which  fled  to  the  succour  of  that 
Glynn  as  to  a sanctuary,”  and  laments  that  Feagh  Mac-Hugh,  by  the  assistance  of  his 
brave  mountaineers,  whom  Spencer  would  degrade  by  the  title  of  thieves  and  outlaws, 
“ has  got  unto  himself  a great  name  among  the  Irish,  and  hath  through  many  unhappy 
occasions  increased  his  said  name  and  the  opinion  of  his  greatness,  insomuch,  that  now 
he  is  become  a dangerous  enemy  to  deal  withal.” — Spenser’ sView  of  the  State  oj  Ireland . 
One  of  the  “unhappy  occasions,”  as  the  courtly  Spencer  calls  them,  by  which  Glenmaluro 
was  celebrated,  was  the  signal  defeat  of  the  gallant  and  unfortunate  Essex. 


228 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


Want  of  conduct  lost  the  town, 

Broke  the  white-walled  castle  down, 
Moira  lost,  and  old  Taltin, 

And  let  the  conquering  stranger  in. 

’Twas  the  want  of  right  command, 

Not  the  lack  of  heart  or  hand, 

Left  your  hills  and  plains  to-day 
’Neath  the  strong  Clan  Saxon’s  sway. 

Ah,  had  Heaven  never  sent 
Discord  for  our  punishment, 

Triumphs  few  o’er  Erin’s  host 
Had  Clan  London  now  to  boast. 

Woe  is  me,  ’tis  God’s  decree 
Strangers  have  the  victory  : 

Irishmen  may  now  be  found 
Outlaws  upon  Irish  ground. 

Like  a wild  beast  in  his  den 
Lies  the  chief  by  hill  and  glen, 

While  the  strangers,  proud  and  savage, 
Creevan’s  richest  valleys  ravage. 

Woe  is  me,  the  foul  offence, 

Treachery  and  violence, 

Done  against  my  people’s  rights — 

Well  may  mine  be  restless  nights! 

When  old  Leinster’s  sons  of  fame, 
Heads  of  many  a warlike  name, 

Bedden  their  victorious  hilts 
On  the  Gaul,  my  soul  exults. 

When  the  grim  Gaul,  who  have  como 
Hither  o’er  the  ocean  foam, 

From  the  fight  victorious  go, 

Then  my  heart  sinks  deadly  low. 

Bless  the  blades  our  warriors  draw, 

God  be  with  Clan  Danelagh  !f 
But  my  soul  is  weak  for  fear, 

Thinking  of  their  danger  here. 


f Clan  Ranelagh. — One  of  the  southern  outlets  of  Dublin,  leading  towards  Wicklow,  still 
retains  the  name  of  the  gallant  clan. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


229 


Have  them  in  thy  holy  keeping, 

God  he  with  them  lying  sleeping, 

God  he  with  them  standing  lighting,  J 
Erin’s  foes  in  battle  smiting  ! 

t One  cannot  help  remembering  that  famous  prayer  of  the  old  Scotchwoman — 
“God  be  wi’  Hamilton’s  regiment — right  or  wranglU ” 


THE  GEAYE  OF  MAC  CAUEA. 

Mrs.  Downing. 

At  Callan,  a pass  on  an  unfrequented  road  leading  from  Glanerought  (the  vale  of  the 
Rough ty)  to  Bantry,  the  country  people  point  out  a flat  stone  by  the  pathway,  which  they 
name  as  the  burial-place  of  Daniel  Mac  Carthy,  who  fell  there  in  an  engagement  with  the 
Fitzgeralds  in  1261.  The  stone  still  preserves  the  traces  of  characters,  which  are,  however, 
illegible.  From  the  scanty  records  of  the  period,  it  would  appear  that  this  battle  was  no 
inconsiderable  one.  The  Geraldines  were  defeated,  and  their  leader,  Thomas  Fitzgerald, 
and  his  son,  eighteen  barons,  fifteen  knights,  and  many  others  of  his  adherents,  slain.  But 
the  honour  and  advantage  of  victory  were  dearly  purchased  by  the  exulting  natives,  owing 
to  the  death  of  their  brave  and  noble  chieftain. 

And  this  is  thy  grave,  Mac  Caura, 

Here  hy  the  pathway  lone, 

Where  the  thorn  blossoms  are  bending 
Over  thy  mouldered  stone. 

Alas  ! for  the  sons  of  glory  ; 

Oh  ! thou  of  the  darkened  brow, 

And  the  eagle  pluipe,  and  the  belted  clans, 

Is  it  here  thou  art  sleeping  now  ? 

Oh  ! wild  is  the  spot,  Mac  Caura, 

In  which  they  have  laid  thee  low — 

The  held  where  thy  people  triumphed 
Over  a slaughtered  foe ; 

And  loud  was  the  Banshee’s  wailing, 

And  deep  was  the  clansmen’s  sorrow, 

When,  with  bloody  hands  and  burning  tears, 

They  buried  thee  here,  Mac  Caura. 

And  now  thy  dwelling  is  lonely — 

King  of  the  rushing  horde ; 

And  now  thy  battles  are  over — 

Chief  of  the  shining  sword  ; 

And  the  rolling  thunder  echoes 
O’er  torrent  and  mountain  free, 

But,  alas ! and  alas  ! Mac  Caura, 

It  will  not  awaken  thee. 


230 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


Farewell  to  thy  grave,  Mac  Caura, 

Where  the  slanting  sunbeams  shine, 

And  the  briar  and  waving  fern 
Over  thy  slumbers  twine  ; 

Thou,  whose  gathering  summons 
Could  waken  the  sleeping  glen ; 

Mac  Caura  ! alas  for  thee  and  thine, 

’Twill  never  be  heard  again. 

Here,  for  a third  time  in  this  volume,  Mrs.  Downing  makes  the  Clan  Carthy  the  theme 
of  her  song,  and  always  with  effect.  The  name  Mac  Carthy,  as  spelt  in  Irish,  would  be 
(represented  in  Roman  characters)  Mac  Cartha.  But  it  would  be  pronounced  Mac  Caura 
the  th,  or  dotted  t,  having,  in  the  Irish  tongue,  the  soft  sound  of  h. 


ST.  PATRICK’S  DAY  IX  MY  OWX  PARLOUR. 

J.  F.  Waller. 

Air,  “St.  Patrick’s  Day.” 

Tiie  white  and  the  orange,  the  blue  and  the  green,  boys, 
We’ll  blend  them  together  in  concord  to-night; 

The  orange  most  sweet  amid  green  leaves  is  seen,  boys — 
The  loveliest  pansy  is  blue  and  white. 

The  light  of  the  day 
As  it  glides  away, 

Paints  with  orange  the  white  clouds  that  float  in  the  west, 
And  the  billows  that  roar 
Round  our  own  island  shore 

Lay  their  green  heads  to  rest  on  the  blue  heaven’s  bosom, 
Where  sky  and  sea  meet  in  the  distance  away. 

As  Nature  thus  shows  us  how  well  she  can  fuse  ’em, 

We’ll  blend  them  in  love  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day. 

The  hues  of  the  prism,  philosophers  say,  boys, 

Are  nought  but  the  sunlight  resolved  into  parts ; 

They’re  beauteous,  no  doubt,  but  I think  that  the  ray,  boys, 
Unbroken,  more  lights  up  and  warms  our  hearts. 

Each  musical  tone, 

Struck  one  by  one, 

Makes  melody  sweet,  it  is  true,  on  the  ear — 

But  let  the  hand  ring 
All  at  once  every  string — 

And,  oh ! there  is  harmony  now  that  is  glorious, 

In  unison  pealing  to  heaven  away ; 

For  union  is  beauty,  and  strength,  and  victorious, 

Of  hues,  tones,  or  hearts,  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day. 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


231 


Those  hues  in  one  bosom  be  sure  to  unite,  boys  ; 

Let  each  Irish  heart  wear  those  emblems  so  true  ; 

Be  fresh  as  the  green,  and  he  pure  as  the  white,  boys, — 
Be  bright  as  the  orange,  sincere  as  the  blue. 

I care  not  a jot 

Be  your  scarf  white  or  not, 

If  you  loye  as  a brother  each  child  of  the  soil ; 

I ask  not  your  creed, 

If  you’ll  stand  in  her  need 
To  the  land  of  your  birth  in  the  hour  of  her  dolours, 

The  foe  of  her  foes,  let  them  be  who  they  may ; 

Then,  “fusion  of  hearts,  and  confusion  of  colours l” 
Be  the  Irishman’s  toast  on  St.  Patrick’s  Day. 


AY  ONDHU, 

Callanan. 

The  following  lines  are  but  an  extract  from  a larger  poem,  in  which  the  poet  gives  expres- 
sion to  a sentiment  common  to  us  all— a tender  recollection  of  our  native  land,  more  par- 
ticularly of  the  places  wherein  the  joyous  days  of  youth  were  spent.  But  Callanan  gives 
that  sentiment  with  a graphic  detail  for  which  his  writings  are  remarkable,  and  the  fond- 
ness with  which  he  particularizes  the  “whereabouts”  shows  how  deeply-rooted  were  his 
local  attachments.  Not  only  are  hill  and  glen,  rill  and  river,  distinctly  noted,  but  their 
varied  aspects  under  different  circumstances— whether  they  are  shrouded  in  mist,  or  bathed 
in  the  glow  of  sunset  or  pale  gleam  of  moonlight.  Even  the  voice  of  the  wind,  or,  to  use 
his  own  words,  the 

“Wild  minstrel  of  the  dying  trees,” 

had  a loving  echo  in  the  heart  of  Callanan : — all  are  endeared  to  the  poet  who  bids  them 
— and  her  who,  possibly,  made  “ each  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear” — his  passionate 
farewell.  It  is  evident  he  thought  Avondhu  worthy  of  special  remark,  by  the  following 
note  being  appended  to  his  poem : — 

“Avondhu  means  the  Black  water  (Avunduff  of  Spenser).  There  are  several  rivers  of 
this  name  in  the  counties  of  Cork  and  Kerry,  but  the  one  here  mentioned  is  by  far  the 
most  considerable.  It  rises  in  a boggy  mountain  called  Meenganine,  in  the  latter  county, 
and  discharges  itself  into  the  sea  at  Youghal.  For  the  length  of  its  course  and  the  beauty  and 
variety  of  scenery  through  which  it  flows,  it  is  superior,  I believe,  to  any  river  in  Munster.” 

Oh,  Avondhu,  I wish  I were, 

As  once,  upon  that  mountain  bare, 

Where  thy  young  waters  laugh  and  shine 
On  the  wild  breast  of  Meenganine. 

I wish  I were  by  Cleada’s*  hill, 

Or  by  Glenruachra’s  rushy  rill ; 

But  no  ! I never  more  shall  view 
Those  scenes  I loved  by  Avondhu. 

* Cleada  and  Cahirbearna  (the  hill  of  the  four  gaps)  form  part  of  the  chain  of  mountains 
which  stretches  westward  from  Mill-street  to  Killarney. 


232 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SOIsGS. 


Farewell,  ye  soft  and  purple  streaks 
Of  evening  on  tlie  beauteous  Keeks  ; * 

Farewell,  ye  mists,  that  loved  to  ride 
On  Cabirbearna’s  stormy  side. 

Farewell,  November’s  moaning  breeze, 

Wild  minstrel  of  the  dying  trees : 

Clara ! a fond  farewell  to  you, 

No  more  we  meet  by  Avondhu. 

No  more — but  thou,  0 glorious  hill, 

Lift  to  the  moon  thy  forehead  still ; 

Flow  on,  flow  on,  thou  dark  swift  river, 

Upon  thy  free  wild  course  for  ever. 

Exult,  young  hearts,  in  lifetime’s  spring, 

And  taste  the  joys  pure  love  can  bring  ; 

But,  wanderer,  go,  they’re  not  for  you — 

Farewell,  farewell,  sweet  Avondhu. 

* Maegillicuddy’s  Reeks,  in  tlie  neighbourhood  of  Killamey. 

So  much  for  the  love  of  the  living;  but  it  would  seem  that  this  love  of  native  land  is  so 
superlative  in  the  Irish,  that  it  survives  this  life;  and  Moore,  in  the  “Irish  Melodies,”  avails 
himself  of  the  following  strange  note  from  Paul  Zealand,  stating  that  there  is  a mountain 
in  Ireland,  where  the  ghosts  of  persons  who  have  died  in  foreign  lands,  walk  about  and  con- 
verse with  those  they  meet,  like  living  people.  If  asked  why  they  do  not  return  to  their 
homes,  they  say  they  are  obliged  to  go  to  mount  Hecla,  and  disappear  immediately.  This 
strange  legend  is  beautifully  wrought  by  Moore  in  his  song  “Oh,  ye  Dead!”  where  the 
ghosts,  after  being  accosted,  thus  answer : — 

“ It  is  true,  it  is  true,  we  are  shadows  cold  and  wan, 

And  the  fair  and  the  brave  whom  we  lov’d  on  earth  are  gone ; 

But  still  thus,  e’en  in  death. 

So  sweet  the  living  breath 

Of  the  fields  and  the  flow’rs  in  our  youth  we  wander’d  o’er. 

That  ere,  condemn’d,  we  go 
To  freeze  ’mid  Hecla’s  snow, 

We  would  taste  it  awhile,  and  think  we  live  once  more!” 


A SIGH  FOR  KNOCKMANY. 

William  Cakleton. 

Here  is  another  of  the  great  names  in  Irish  literature,  and  here,  as  in  the  “Avondhu” 
of  Callanan,  we  see  strong  love  of  the  native  sod;  we  find  the  man  who  has  achieved 
celebrity,  and,  to  use  his  own  words,  “given  his  name  to  future  time,”  tenderly  looking  back 
on  the  past,  yearning  for  the  jtnambitious  boyhood—  the  echoes  of  his  native  mountains, 
rather  than  those  of  fame.  Of  the  latter  he  has  had  enough,  but  not  more  than  he 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


233 


deserves;  and  though  sometimes  he  may.be  accused  of  carelessness,  or  exaggeration,  or 
coarseness,  into  which  hurry,  and  party  spirit,  and  excessive  vigour  have  betrayed  him, 
nevertheless,  his  works,  considered  in  general,  are  among  the  highest  of  their  class; 
his  descriptions  of  Irish  life,  and  delineation  of  Irish  character,  being  full  of  truth,  and 
power,  and  tenderness.  It  is  needless  to  enumerate  them— they  are  tolerably  well  known 
to  the  world;  but  for  exhibiting  the  qualities  particularized,  the  tales  of  “The  Black 
Prophet,”  “Fardarougha  the  Miser,”  and  “The  Poor  Scholar,”  are  good  examples. 
William  Carleton  has  dealt  less  with  verse  than  prose,  wherein  his  great  power  lies ; but 
the  following  lines  are  full  of  feeling. 

Take,  proud  ambition,  take  thy  fill 
Of  pleasures  won  through  toil  or  crime 

Go,  learning,  climb  thy  rugged  hill, 

And  give  thy  name  to  future  time : 

Philosophy,  be  keen  to  see 

Whate’er  is  just,  or  false,  or  vain, 

Take  each  thy  meed,  bu.t,  oh  ! give  me 
To  range  my  mountain  glens  again. 

Pure  was  the  breeze  that  f aim’d  my  cheek, 

As  o’er  Knockmany’s  brow  I went ; 

When  every  lonely  dell  could  speak 
In  airy  music,  vision  sent : 

False  woild,  I hate  thy  cares  and  thee, 

I hate  the  treacherous  haunts  of  men ; 

Give  back  my  early  heart  to  me, 

Give  back  to  me  my  mountain  glen. 

How  light  my  youthful  visions  shone, 

When  spann’d  by  Fancy’s  radiant  form  ; 

But  now  her  glittering  bow  is  gone, 

And  leaves  me  but  the  cloud  and  storm. 

With  wasted  form,  and  cheek  all  pale — 

With  heart  long  seared  by  grief  and  pain  ; 

Dunroe,  I’ll  seek  thy  native  gale, 

I’ll  tread  my  mountain  glens  again. 

Thy  breeze  once  more  may  fan  my  blood, 

Thy  valleys  all  are  lovely  still ; 

And  I may  stand,  where  oft  I stood, 

In  lonely  musings  on  thy  hill. 

But,  ah!  the  spell  is  gone  ; — no  art 
In  crowded  town,  or  native  plain, 

Can  teach  a crush’d  and  breaking  heart 
To  pipe  the  song  of  youth  again. 


234 


PATRIOTIC  AND  MILITARY  SONGS. 


VOICES  OF  THE  PAST. 

Miss  Herbert 

There’s  a weary  voice  of  sighing 
In  the  murmurs  of  the  breeze — 

There’s  a dream  of  grief  undying 
In  the  foaming  of  the  seas ! 

There’s  a whispering  from  our  mountains, 

From  our  valleys,  and  our  streams ! 

And  a moaning  from  our  fountains 
Like  the  grief  of  troubled  dreams. 

Oh ! that  voice — it  is  the  sighing 
Of  the  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Down  by  vale  and  dingle  lying, 

Where  the  free-born  fought  and  bled  ; 

In  the  forest  breezes  stealing, 

And  the  murmurs  of  the  sea, 

From  their  lonely  graves  appealing 
To  the  spirits  of  the  free. 

Isle  of  mist,  and  bardic  story, 

Isle  of  many  a hero  lay, 

Where  is  all  thine  ancient  glory  ? 

Have  thine  honours  passed  away? 

Oh ! that  sigh,  it  is  for  freedom, 

Freedom  to  thy  fathers’  graves : 

Has  the  voice  of  Heaven  decreed  them, 

E’en  in  ashes,  to  be  slaves  ? 

These  lines  remind  us  of  Moore’s  more  vigorous  song,  “Where  shall  we  bury  our  shameP” 
—that  passionate  outburst  of  indignation  supposed  to  be  made  by  a Neapolitan  patriot. 
The  concluding  quatrain  has  great  similarity  of  idea. 

“ Thus  to  live  cowards  and  slaves ! — 

Oh,  ye  free  hearts  that  lie  dead. 

Do  you  not,  e’en  in  your  graves, 

' Shudder  as  o’er  you  we  tread?” 

“Alas ! poor  ghosts !”— King  Bomba  still  reigns. 


olittcal  and  historical 
songs,  those  interesting 
and  highly  illustrative 
commentaries  on  the  course  of 
events,  are  to  be  found  in  the 
literature  of  most,  if  not  of 
every  country,  and  when  they 
can  he  read  dispassionately — 
with  total  absence  of  all  partisan 
sensibility,  they  are  not  only 
conducive  to  instruction,  hut  to 
high  intellectual  pleasure.  But 
when  this  condition  cannot  he 
fulfilled,  the  path  of  an  editor  is 
beset  with  difficulty.  In  that 
case  he  treads  on  ground  which 
may  still  be  considered  “debate- 
able” — where  some  war-cry  or  wratch-word  may  unexpectedly  arouse 


236 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


the  borderers ; or  while  he  seeks  * but  some  ilower  characteristic  of 
the  soil,  he  may  wake  some  serpent  under  it  he  would  rather  should 
lie  sleeping  : — and  these  are  the  difficulties  that  pre-eminently  exist 
in  dealing  with  the  political  songs  of  Ireland,  as  political  strife  has 
existed  there,  in  an  aggravated  form,  longer  and  later  than  in  any 
other  part  of  the  United  Kingdom.  Hence  it  is  that  this  section  is 
more  barren  than  I could  wish;  more  barren  than  it  might  have 
been  under  more  favourable  circumstances ; but,  however  incomplete, 
it  was  felt  that  in  a volume  where  specimens  of  all  other  classes  of 
lyric  poetry  of  Ireland  were  given,  this  class  of  composition  must  not 
be  totally  overlooked,  however  limited  in  its  range,  however  guarded 
a circumspection  might  be  required  in  its  execution. 

With  respect  to  the  historical  songs  of  Ireland,  few  exist,  that  I 
know  of,  written  in  English,  and  most  of  the  translations  that  I have 
seen  from  the  Irish,  are  somewhat  tedious,  and  often  rather  a special 
lament  for,  or  glorification  of,  some  chieftain,  than  a general  treat- 
ment of  the  subject.  Moore,  it  is  true,  sometimes  made  historic 
allusions  in  his  Irish  Melodies,  but  it  is  equally  true  that,  though 
such  of  his  songs  were  worthy  of  his  fame,  they  never  became  popu- 
lar, with  the  exception  of  “The  Harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  Hall” 
and  “ Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore.”  All  of  his  historical 
and  political  pieces  would  be  welcome  and  valuable  additions  in  the 
following  section,  but  their  proprietors  forbid  their  use.  Even  the 
historical  songs  that  are  treated  in  the  following  selection  are  mostly 
by  modern  hands ; and,  it  may  be  observed,  that,  when  the  authorship 
of  such  belongs  to  the  time  of  the  event  recorded,  the  execution  is 
very  rough  indeed;  as  in  “The  Boyne  Water”  and  “Siege  of  Car- 
rickfergus,”  which  are  only  interesting  as  cotemporaneous  verifica- 
tions of  salient  points  of  history,  with  occasional  touches  of  local 
precision  and  record  of  names,  which  impart  that  sort  of  interest  to 
them  which  documentary  papers,  with  all  their  dryness,  often 
possess.  Exception  to  this  remark  may  be  made,  however,  regarding 
one  of  the  historical  songs  that  follow,  and  that  a translation  from 
the  Irish — “John  O’Dwyer  of  the  Glen,”  which,  I think,  will  be 
acknowledged  to  possess  much  poetic  merit. 

Respecting  the  political  pieces,  the  specimens  given,  while  suf- 
ficiently characteristic  of  their  time,  have  no  present  sting : — for,  as 
more  than  half  a century  has  passed  away  since  most  of  them  had 
temporary  interest  or  significance,  it  is  hoped  they  cannot  be  offen- 
sive to  any,  but  may  be  looked  upon,  merely,  as  literary  remnants  of 
eventful  times. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


237 


To  treat  of  any  Irish  political  subject,  without  offence,  was  always 
difficult  enough  any  time  for  the  last  five-and-twenty  years,  but  the 
difficulty  has  been  much  increased  by  the  somewhat  recent  doings  of 
a small  party  whose  fatal  self-esteem  too  often  hurried  them  into 
acts  of  presumption — whether  it  was  to  instruct  the  veteran  O’Con- 
nell, as  a politician,  or  criticise  the  accomplished  Thomas  Moore,  as 
a bard. 

Of  their  doings,  as  politicians,  it  is  not  my  desire,  nor  is  this  the 
place  to  enlarge,  but  one  significant  remark  may  be  made,  that  their 
total — it  may  be  said  ludicrous  failure,  was  the  most  convincing  proof 
of  their  incapacity.  But  respecting  their  conduct  to  Moore,  I will 
not  be  silent ; and  no  fitter  place  than  this  could  be  found  to  expose 
the  injustice  and  ingratitude  with  which  he  was  treated. 

Moore  undoubtedly  did  more  for  Ireland  than  all  her  other  bards 
put  together.  His  winning  lay  insinuated  a sympathy  for  Ireland 
into  bosoms  impervious  to  open  assault.  The  cold  circle  of  prejudice 
that  had  hitherto  guarded  many  a heart  in  high  places  was  opened  to 
the  magic  of  his  song,  and,  for  the  first  time,  the  harp  of  Ireland 
became  more  than  an  emblem  of  her  fame : — it  was  turned  to  an 
instrument  for  her  good. 

And  what  was  the  return  Moore  had  at  the  hands  of  the  Young 
Ireland  party,  for  this? — They  “cautioned”  the  people  of  Ireland 
that  Moore  had  “ corrupted”  their  melodies; — that  was  the  word — 
corrupted ; — Careful  patriots  ! ! — But  they  also  begged  to  assure  the 
world  they  had  no  desire  to  “ run  down  Mr.  Moore.”  The  phrase 
might  move  indignation,  were  it  not  more  provocative  of  laughter. 

As  to  the  corruption  of  melodies,  a word  may  be  said  on  that  sub- 
ject, en  passant.  It  is  well  known  by  those  conversant  with  the 
subject,  that  different  sets  (or  varieties)  of  the  same  melody  are  to  be 
found  in  different  counties — or  even  in  the  same  county  from  dif- 
ferent singers  or  players.  Which  is  the  genuine  ? Who  is  to  pro- 
nounce judgment  ? Who  is  entitled  to  fling  in  any  one’s  teeth  that 
ugly  word  “ corruption  ? ” 

Judging  from  their  works,  the  aggressors  in  this  case  are  not 
entitled  to  arbitrate.  Their  own  volume  of  songs,  with  musical  set- 
tings, under  the  modest  name  of  “The  Spirit  of  the  Nation,”  gives 
sufficient  proof  of  this.  There  they  may  sometimes  be  seen  incapable 
of  accomplishing  that  which  they  were  so  rashly-ready  to  criticise. 
As  a special  example  of  this,  one  song  may  be  named  from  that  col- 
lection adapted  to  the  exquisite  air  of  “The  Wheelwright” — an  air 
soaring  and  musical  as  a lark  ; — and  yet  to  this  brilliant  air  a woful 


238 


HISTORICAL  AXD  POLITICAL  SOXGS. 


ditty  is  -written,  beginning,  “Oil!  weep  those  days,  those  penal  days.” 
A more  signal  failure  in  literary  and  musical  combination  could 
scarcely  be  made  ; yet  the  very  author  of  this  poor  attempt  had  the 
presumption  to  caution  Ireland  against  Moore. 

At  last  they  attempted  to  usurp  the  rights  of  Omnipotence — to 
supersede  Nature  herself  in  one  of  her  divinest  offices — by  issuing 
general  instructions  for  the  making  of  poets-proper  for  Ireland,  for- 
getting the  Latin  adage,  that  poets  are  born — not  made.  But  their 
proposed  manufactory  of  poets  proved  as  barren  a speculation  as  the 
rest  of  their  schemes  ; no  child  of  song  was  ground  out  of  their  mill ; 
Nature  would  not  be  hurried  in  her  process  of  poet-birth;  and, 
having  given  Moore  to  the  present  century,  she  thinks,  perhaps, 
Ireland  may  be  content  for  a while,  and  wait. 

One  of  the  self-elected  law-givers  in  this  new  temple  of  The  Muses 
goes  so  far  as  to  “fix  arbitrarily”  the  number  of  lines  of  which  a 
song  shall  consist ; he  even  goes  the  length  of  limiting  the  number  of 
syllables  that  should  constitute  a certain  composition  he  calls  by  the 
affected  name  of  “ Songlet.”  This  gentleman  may  be  called  the  bed- 
maker  of  The  Young  Ireland  College  of  Criticism  ; but  he  makes  his 
bed  after  the  fashion  of  Procrustes,  and  cuts  to  the  proper  measure 
all  that  he  would  consign  to  eternal  sleep  under  his  wet  blanket. 

I have  only  to  observe,  in  conclusion,  that  the  following  pieces  are 
arranged  in  chronological  order,  where  it  could  be  observed,  and 
throughout  the  whole  section  the  audi  alteram  partem , that  golden 
rule,  has  been  kept  in  view.  Each  party  speaks  for  itself — sometimes 
with  sufficient  spirit — sometimes  with  sufficient  bitterness.  If  it  be 
noticed  that  one  of  these  parties  has  been  allowed  a larger  space  than 
the  other — the  greater  share  of  speech, — let  me  not  be  accused  of 
unfairness ; but  be  it  remembered,  that  those  who  struggle  against 
power  have  been  always  more  prolific  in  bardic  effusion  than  its 
supporters ; that  the  generous  spirit  of  minstrelsy  has  always  shown  a 
chivalrous  preference  for  the  weaker  side.  While  the  Jacobite  songs 
of  Scotland  furnished  brilliant  proof  of  the  heroic  spirit  and  poetic 
power  of  the  partisans  of  James,  the  Georges  had  few  to  sing  their 
praises.  If  the  pen  had  been  the  only  instrument  of  warfare,  the 
result  of  the  battle  had  been  different ; but  experience  has  not  been 
flattering  to  the  poet ; the  course  of  events  establishes  the  fact,  that 
the  “paper  pellets  of  the  brain”  are  fearfully  counterbalanced  by 
those  of  lead,  and  that  nimble  Pegasus  is  overmatched  by  heavy 
dragoons. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


239 


TIIE  BATTLE  OF  DUNDALK. 

Mr.  Henry  R.  Montgomery,  in  his  interesting  volume  entitled  “ Specimens  of  the  Early 
Native  Poetry  of  Ireland,”  thus  speaks  of  this  battle  : — 

“A  naval  engagement  is  recorded  as  having  taken  place  at  Dundalgin,  the  present 
Dundalk,  in  the  tenth  century,  with  the  Danes  and  Northmen,  under  the  command  of 
Magnus,  Sitric,  and  Tor,  in  which  the  invaders  were  completely  routed. 

The  following  translation  of  an  Irish  song  written  in  commemoration  of  this  naval  victory 
appeared  anonymously  in  the  Belfast  Chronicle — 

Now  sheathed  is  the  sword,  and  the  battle  is  o’er, 

The  shouts  of  the  victors  have  ceased  on  the  shore, — 

With  blood,  0 Dundalgin,  thy  billows  are  dyed, 

O’er  the  mighty  of  Lochlin  thy  deep  waters  glide. 

0 fierce  was  the  conflict  our  warriors  maintain’d, 

But  bright  is  the  triumph  their  valour  has  gain’d  ; 

Long  Erin  her  tears  and  her  praises  shall  give, 

For  life  they  resign’d  that  her  glory  might  live. 

Though  no  cairns  do  the  bones  of  the  valiant  enclose, 

On  the  sands  of  the  ocean  though  deep  they  repose, 

The  patriot  shall  turn  from  the  high-trophied  grave, 

And  seek,  0 Dundalgin,  thy  sanctified  wave. 

There,  in  grateful  remembrance,  their  fame  shall  recall, 

Exult  in  tlieir  glory,  and  envy  their  fall, 

Who  each  in  his  death-grasp  encircled  a foe, 

And  plung’d  with  his  prize  in  the  billows  below.* 

* Reminding  us  of  the  two  Mexicans  who  attempted  to  make  Coetez  share  their  fate  in 
the  famous  death-plunge  from  the  Great  Tower. 


C 0 U L I N. 

Caeole  Malone. 

In  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  an  act  was  made  respecting  the 
habits  and  dress  in  general  of  the  Irish,  whereby  all  persons  were  restrained  from  being 
shorn  or  shaven  above  the  ears,  or  from  wearing  glibbes,  or  Coulins  (long  locks)  on  their 
heads,  or  hair  on  their  upper  lip,  called  Crommeal.  On  this  occasion  a song  was  written 
by  one  of  our  bards,  in  which  an  Irish  virgin  is  made  to  give  the  preference  to  her  dear 
Coulin  (or  the  youth  with  the  flowing  locks),  to  all  strangers  (by  which  the  Engiish  were 
meant),  or  those  who  wore  their  habits.  Of  this  song  the  air  alone  has  reached  us,  and  is 
universally  admired.— Walker,  as  quoted  in  Moore's  Melodies. 

It  so  happens,  however,  on  turning  to  the  above  statute,  that  no  mention  is  to  be  found 
therein  of  the  Coulin.  But  in  the  year  1295,  a Parliament  was  held  in  Dublin;  and  then  an 
act  was  passed  which  more  than  expressly  names  the  Coulin,  and  minutely  describes  it  for 


240 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


ts  more  effectual  prohibition . This,  the  only  statute  made  in  Ireland  that  names  the 
Coulin,  was  passed  two  hundred  and  forty-two  years  before  the  act  cited  by  Mr.  Moore ; and, 
in  consequence  of  it,  some  of  the  Irish  Chieftains  who  lived  near  the  seat  of  English 
government,  or  wished  to  keep  up  intercourse  with  the  English  districts,  did,  in  or  soon 
after  that  year,  1295,  cut  off  their  Coulins,  and  a distinct  memorial  of  the  event  was  made 
in  writing  by  the  officers  of  the  Crown.  It  was  on  this  occasion  that  the  bard,  ever 
adhesive  to  national  habits,  endeavoured  to  fire  the  patriotism  of  a conforming  chieftain ; 
and,  in  the  character  of  some  favourite  virgin,  declares  her  preference  for  her  lover  with 
the  Coulin,  before  him  who  complaisantly  assumed  the  adornments  of  foreign  fashion. — 
Dublin  Penny  Journal. 

The  last  time  slie  looked  in  the  face  of  her  dear, 

She  breathed  not  a sigh,  and  she  shed  not  a tear ; 

But  she  took  up  his  harp,  and  she  kissed  his  cold  check — 

“ ’Tis  the  first  and  the  last  for  thy  Norah  to  seek.” 

For  beauty  and  bravery  Cathan  was  known, 

And  the  long  flowing  coulin  he  wore  in  Tyrone  ; 

The  sweetest  of  singers  and  harpers  was  he, 

All  over  the  North,  from  the  Bann  to  the  sea. 

O’er  the  marshes  of  Dublin  he  often  would  rove, 

To  the  glens  of  O’Toole,  where  he  met  with  his  love  ; 

And  at  parting  they  pledged  that,  next  Midsummer’s  day, 

He  would  come  for  the  last  time,  and  bear  her  away. 

The  king  had  forbidden  the  men  of  O’Neal, 

With  the  coulin  adorned,  to  come  o’er  the  pale ; 

But  Norah  was  Irish,  and  said,  in  her  pride, 

“If  he  wear  not  his  coulin,  I’ll  ne’er  be  his  bride.” 

The  bride  has  grown  pale  as  the  robe  that  she  wears, 

For  the  Lammas  is  come,  and  no  bridegroom  appears ; 

And  she  hearkens  and  gazes,  when  all  are  at  rest, 

For  the  sound  of  his  harp  and  the  sheen  of  his  vest. 

Her  palfrey  is  pillioned,  and  she  has  gone  forth 
On  the  long  rugged  road  that  leads  down  to  the  North 
Where  Eblana’s*  strong  castle  frowns  darkly  and  drear, 

Is  the  head  of  her  Cathan  upraised  on  a spear. 

The  Lords  of  the  Castle  had  murdered  him  there, 

And  all  for  the  wearing  that  poor  lock  of  hair  : 

For  the  word  she  had  spoken  in  mirth  or  in  pride, 

Her  lover,  too  fond  and  too  faithful,  had  died. 

’Twas  then  that  she  looked  in  the  face  of  her  dear, 

She  breathed  not  a sigh,  and  she  dropped  not  a tear ; 

She  took  up  his  harp,  and  she  kissed  his  cold  cheek  : 

“ Farewell ! ’tis  the  first  for  thy  Norah  to  seek.” 

* Eblana,  Dublin. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


241 


And  afterward,  oft  would  the  wilderness  ring, 

As,  at  night,  in  sad  strains,  to  that  harp  she  would  sing 
Her  heart-breaking  tones — we  remember  them  well — 

But  the  words  of  her  wailing  no  mortal  can  tell. 

Mr.  Malone  has  caught  the  true  spirit  of  the  ballad  in  these  lines,  so  touchingly  com- 
memorative of  an  historic  epoch,  and  the  two  leading  notes  given  above  are  rather  curious. 
We  may  further  notice,  here,  the  singularity  in  the  changes  of  fashion.  We  see,  from  the 
above,  that  short  hair  was  enjoined  in  those  days  as  a mark  of  loyalty,  whereas  short  hair 
in  1798  was  the  mark  of  a rebel.  See  “ The  Croppy  Boy,”  and  “A  Prospect,”  in  this  volume. 


JOHN  O’DWYER  OF  THE  GLEN. 

Translated  from  the  Irish,  by  Thomas  Furlong. 

Blithe  the  bright  dawn  found  me, 

Best  with  strength  had  crown’d  me, 

Sweet  the  birds  sang  round  me, 

Sport  was  all  their  toil. 

12 


242 


HISTORICAL  A XD  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


The  horn  its  clang  was  keeping, 

Forth  the  fox  was  creeping, 

Round  each  dame  stood  weeping, 

O’er  the  prowler’s  spoil. 

Hark  ! the  foe  is  calling, 

F ast  the  woods  are  falling, 

Scenes  and  sights  appalling 

Mark  the  wasted  soil. 

War  and  confiscation 
Curse  the  fallen  nation ; 

Gloom  and  desolation 

Shade  the  lost  land  o’er. 

Chill  the  winds  are  blowing, 

Death  aloft  is  going, 

Peace  or  hope  seems  growing 

For  our  race  no  more. 

Hark  ! the  foe  is  calling, 

Fast  the  woods  are  falling, 

Scenes  and  sights  appalling 

Throng  the  blood-stained  shore. 

Nobles,  once  high-hearted, 

From  their  homes  have  parted, 

Scattered,  scared,  and  started 

By  a base-born  band. 

* * * # 

Spots  that  once  were  cheering, 

Girls  beloved,  endearing, 

Friends  from  whom  I’m  steering, 

Take  this  parting  tear. 

Hark ! the  foe  is  calling, 

Fast  the  woods  are  falling, 

Scenes  and  sights  appalling 

Plague  and  haunt  me  hero. 

There  is  an  antique  character  in  this  song,  and  the  refrain 

“ Hark,  the  foe  is  calling, 

Fast  the  woods  are  falling,” 

strengthens  the  idea  of  its  being  of  an  early  date ; for  in  the  early  days  of  the  invasion  of 
Ireland,  the  woods,  which  then  abounded,  were  used  for  shelter  and  concealment ; hence 
they  were  objects  of  wholesale  destruction  to  the  invaders,  and  this  often  proved  a source 
of  national  lament.  One  of  the  very  old  Irish  airs,  full  of  plaintive  melody  and  a certain 
antique  quaintuess,  is  called  “The  Woods  are  cutting.” 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


243 


Here  are  two  remarks  on  the  subject,  even  as  late  as  Elizabeth’s  time : 

“ A flying  enemy,  hiding  himself  in  woods  and  bogs,  from  whence  he  will  not  draw  forth 
but  into  some  strait  passage,  or  perilous  ford,  where  he  knows  the  army  must  needs  pass ; 
there  will  he  lie  in  wait,  and,  if  he  find  advantage  fit,  will  dangerously  hazard  the  troubled 
soldier.” 

“ I wish  that  order  were  taken  for  cutting  and  opening  all  places  through  woods : so  that 
a wide  way,  of  the  space  of  one  hundred  yards,  might  be  laid  open  in  every  of  them.” — 
Spensers  View  of  the  State  of  Ireland. 


THE  CHAD*  OF  GOLD. 

Samuel  Loveb.  From  “ Songs  and  Ballads.” 

The  Earl  of  Kildare,  Lord-Deputy  of  Ireland,  ruled  justly,  and  was  hated  by  the  small 
oppressors  whose  practices  he  discountenanced.  They  accused  him  of  favouring  the  Irish, 
to  the  detriment  of  the  king’s  interest ; but  he,  in  the  presence  of  the  king  (Henry  VII.), 
rebutted  their  calumnies.  They  said,  at  last,  “ Please  your  Highness,  all  Ireland  cannot 
rule  this  Earl.”  “ Then,”  said  Henry,  “ he  is  the  man  to  rule  all  Ireland.”  And  he  took 
the  golden  chain  from  his  neck,  and  threw  it  over  the  shoulders  of  the  Earl,  who  returned 
with  honour  to  his  government. 

Oh,  Moina,  Eve  a tale  to  tell, 

Will  glad  thy  soul,  my  girl ; 

The  King  hath  giv’n  a chain  of  gold 
To  our  noble-hearted  Earl. 

His  foes  they  rail’d,  the  Earl  ne’er  quail’d, 

But  with  a front  so  hold, 

Before  the  King  did  backward  fling 
The  slanderous  lie  they  told ; 

And  the  King  gave  him  no  iron  chain, 

Ko — he  gave  him  a chain  of  gold  ! 

Oh,  ’tis  a noble  sight  to  see, 

The  cause  of  truth  prevail ; 

An  honest  cause  is  always  proof 
Against  a treach’rous  tale. 

Let  fawning  false  ones  court  the  great, 

The  heart  in  virtue  hold, 

Will  hold  the  right  in  pow’rs  despite 
Until  that  heart  he  cold: 

For  falsehood’s  the  bond  of  slavery; 

But  truth  is  the  chain  of  gold  ! 

F alse  Connal  wed  the  rich  one, 

With  her  gold  and  jewels  rare, 

But  Dermid  wed  the  maid  he  lov’d, 

And  she  clear’d  his  brow  from  care. 


244 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


And  thus,  in  our  own  hearts  love, 

We  may  read  this  lesson  plain — 

Let  outward  joys  depart  love, 

So  peace  within  remain  : 

For  falsehood  is  an  iron  bond, 

But  love  is  the  golden  chain ! 

In  a later  day  there  was  another  Earl  of  Kildare  went  over  on  a similar  piece  of 
business,  but  the  affair  did  not  turn  out  so  well.  A false  report  was  spread,  by  the  enemies 
of  the  Geraldines,  that  the  Earl  had  been  committed  to  the  Tower  of  London  and  be- 
headed. Whereupon  his  son.  Lord  Thomas,  known  as  “ Silken  Thomas,”  broke  out  into 
rebellion,  which  ended  as  his  enemies  wished. 


ROISIN  DUBH.* 

Translated  from  the  Irish,  by  Thomas  Furlong. 

Roisin  Dubh,  ( Little  BlacTc  Bose,)  is  an  allegorical  ballad,  in  which  strong  political 
feelings  are  conveyed,  as  a personal  address  from  a lover  to  his  fair  one.  The  allegorical 
meaning  has  been  long  since  forgotten,  and  the  verses  are  now  remembered  and  sung  as  a 
plaintive  love  ditty.  It  was  composed  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  of  England,  to  celebrate 
our  Irish  hero,  Hugh  Buadh  O'  Donnell,  of  Tyrconnell.  By  Boisin  Dubh,  supposed  to  be  a 
beloved  female,  is  meant  Ireland.  The  toils  and  sufferings  of  the  patriot  soldier  are 
throughout  described  as  the  cares  and  feelings  of  an  anxious  lover  addressing  the  object  of 
his  affection.  The  song  concludes  with  a bold  declaration  of  the  dreadful  struggle  which 
would  be  made  before  the  country  should  be  surrendered  to  the  embraces  of  our  hero’s 
hated  and  implacable  rival.  The  air  is  a good  specimen  of  the  characteristic  melancholy 
which  pervades  Irish  music.” — Mar  diman’s  Irish  Minstrelsy,  vol.  i.,  p.  254. 

Oh  ! my  sweet  little  rose,  cease  to  pine  for  the  past, 

For  tbe  friends  that  come  eastward  shall  see  thee  at  last; 

They  bring  blessings  and  favours  the  past  never  knew, 

To  pour  forth  in  gladness  on  my  Roseen  Dhu. 

Long,  long,  with  my  dearest,  thro’  strange  scenes  I ’ve  gone, 

O’er  mountains  and  broad  valleys  I still  have  toil’d  on ; 

O’er  the  Erne  I have  sailed  as  the  rough  gales  blew, 

While  the  harp  pour’d  its  music  for  my  Roseen  Dhu. 

Tho’  wearied,  oh  ! my  fair  one ! do  not  slight  my  song, 

For  my  heart  dearly  loves  thee,  and  hath  loved  thee  long ; 

In  sadness  and  in  sorrow  I shall  still  be  true,' 

And  cling  with  wild  fondness  round  my  Roseen  Dhu. 

* Pronounced  Boseen  Dhu,  in  which  form  of  spelling  I think  it  preferable  to  leave  it,  for 
the  sake  of  those  who  are  not  Irish  scholars. 


IIISTOKICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


245 


There ’s  no  flower  that  e’er  bloomed  can  my  rose  excel, 

There’s  no  tongue  that  e’er  moved  half  my  love  can  tell ; 

Had  I strength,  had  I skill,  the  wide  world  to  subdue, 

Oh ! the  queen  of  that  wide  world  should  be  Roseen  Dhu. 

Had  I power,  oh!  my  lov’d  one!  but  to  plead  thy  right, 

I should  speak  out  in  boldness  for  my  heart’s  delight ; 

I would  tell  to  all  round  me  how  my  fondness  grew, 

And  bid  them  bless  the  beauty  of  my  Roseen  Dhu. 

The  mountains,  high  and  misty,  thro’  the  moors  must  go, 

The  rivers  shall  run  backward,  and  the  lakes  overflow  ; 

And  the  wild  waves  of  old  ocean  wear  a crimson  hue, 

Ere  the  world  sees  the  ruin  of  my  Roseen  Dhu. 

i 

The  translation  given  above  would  very  nearly  sing  to  the  ancient  melody  entitled  the 
JRoisin  Dulh,  in  Bunting’s  “Ancient  Music  of  Ireland;”  but  there  is  a quaint  wildness  in 
the  air  which  makes  adaption  difficult  to  the  poet.  In  fact,  to  suit  the  measure  of  the 
music  perfectly,  unequal  and  very  unusual  metre  should  he  adopted.  There  is  a second 
setting  of  the  air,  in  Bunting,  entitled  Roisin  bheag  dulh  ( little  black  rose-bud),  which 
perfectly  agrees  in  rhythm  with  the  stanzas  above. 


DARK  ROSALEEH. 

Translated  from  tffe  Irish,  by  James  Clabence  Maitgait. 

Here  is  another  version  of  this  celebrated  ballad;  sufficient  points  of  resemblance 
will  be  found  in  them  to  show  they  were  taken  from  the  same  original,  but  there  is  much 
more  richness  in  Mr.  Mangan’s  translation,  and  the  reverberation  of  certain  words  smacks 
of  orientalism,  and  hence  is  more  Irish : this  is  particularly  apparent  in  the  second  verse. 
In  the  first  stanza  the  allusion  to  “ Boman  wine”  and  “Spanish  ale”  are  sufficiently 
intelligible  without  a note. 

0 my  dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep ! 

The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 

There’s  wine . . . .from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green ; 

And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  -dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 

Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 


246 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


Over  hills,  and  through  dales. 

Have  I roamed  for  your  sake  ; 

All  yesterday  I sailed  with  sails 
On  river  and  on  lake. 

The  Erne, ....  at  its  highest  flood, 

I dashed  across  unseen, 

Eor  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  dark  Eosaleen ! 

My  own  Eosaleen ! 

Oh ! there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

Eed  lightning  lightened  through  my  blood. 
My  dark  Eosaleen ! 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro,  do  I move, 

The  very  soul  within  my  breast 
Is  wasted  for  you,  love ! 

The  heart ....  in  my  bosom  faints 
To  think  of  you,  my  queen, 

My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Eosaleen ! 

My  own  Eosaleen ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 

My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Eosaleen ! 

Vo  and  pain,  pain  and  wo, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 

To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 

But  yet will  I rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen  ; 

’Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone. 

My  dark  Eosaleen ! 

My  own  Eosaleen ! 

’Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 

’Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone. 

My  dark  Eosaleen ! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I fly,  for  your  weal : 

Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 
Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 

At  home in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning’s  dawn  till  e’en, 

You’ll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers. 

My  dark  Eosaleen ! 

My  fond  Eosaleen ! 

You’ll  think  of  me  through  daylight’s  hours. 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Eosaleen ! 


HISTORICAL  AKD  POLITICAL  SOHGS. 


247 


I could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I could  plough  the  high  hills, 

Oh,  I could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 
To  heal  your  many  ills ! 

And  one beamy  smile  from  you. 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen ! 

Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 

A second  life,  a soul  anew, 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 

0 ! the  Erne  shall  run  red 
With  redundance  of  blood, 

The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 
And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 

And  gun-peal,  and  slogan-cry, 

Wake  many  a glen  serene, 

Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 
My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 


GRAINNE  MAOL  AND  QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

A.D.  1575. 

From  the  Irish.  Hardiman’s  Minstrelsy. 

The  following  epitomized  narrative  of  some  of  the  most  remarkable  passages  in  the  life 
of  our  romantic  Sea  Queen  is  taken  from  Owen  Connellan’s  translation  of  that  most 
interesting  work,  the  “Annals  of  the  Four  Masters.’*  The  note  is  a closely-condensed 
compilation  from  articles  in  Authologia  Hibernica  (for  the  year  1793),  Lodge’s  Peerage  of 
Ireland,  and  other  authorities.  I had  already  made  extracts  from  the  Authologia,  when  I 
chanced  to  find  Mr.  Connellan’s  note,  and  found  it  so  much  preferable  that  I did  not 
hesitate  to  adopt  it. 

“ Grace  O’Malley,  called  in  Irish  Grainne  Maol,  commonly  pronounced  Granu  Wail,  is 
celebrated  in  Irish  history.  She  was  first  married  to  O’Flaherty,  Chief  of  West  Connaught ; 
and  secondly  to  Sir  Richard  Burke,  by  whom  she  had  a son  Theobald,  who  was  a com- 
mander of  note  on  the  side  of  the  English,  in  Connaught,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth ; he 
was  called  Sir  Theobald  Burke,  and  was  created  Viscount  of  Mayo  by  Charles  I.  Her  father, 
Owen  O’Malley,  was  a noted  chief,  and  had  a small  fleet  with  which  he  made  many  expeditions, 
partly  for  commercial  purposes,  but  chiefly  in  piracy.  Grace,  in  her  youth,  frequently  ac- 


248 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


companied  her  father  on  these  expeditions,  and  after  his  death,  her  brother  being  a minor, 
she  took  upon  herself  the  command  of  her  galleys,  and  made  with  her  crews  many  bold  expe- 
ditions ; her  chief  rendezvous  was  at  Clare  Island,  off  the  coast  of  Mayo,  where  she  kept  her 
large  vessels  moored,  and  had  a fortress ; but  she  had  her  small  craft  at  Carrigahooly  * Castle, 
(in  the  bay  of  Newport,  county  Mayo),  which  was  her  chief  residence  and  stronghold;  and 
there  was  a hole  to  be  seen  in  the  ruined  walls  through  which  a cable  was  run  from  one  of  her 
ships,  for  the  purpose  of  communicating  an  alarm  to  her  apartment  on  any  sudden  danger.  It 
is  said  that  her  piracies  became  so  frequent  that  she  was  proclaimed,  and  £500  offered  as  a 
reward  for  her  apprehension,  and  troops  were  sent  from  Galway  to  take  the  Castle  of  Car- 
rigahooly ; but  after  a siege  of  more  than  a fortnight,  they  were  forced  to  retire,  being  de- 
feated by  the  valour  of  Grace  and  her  men.  These  exploits  were  performed  by  her  before  and 
after  her  marriage  with  O’ Flaherty,  but  after  his  death,  and  her  marriage  with  Sir  Richard 
Burke,  she  became  reconciled  to  the  Government,  and,  with  her  followers,  assisted  the 
English  forces  in  Connaught,  and  for  her  services  it  is  said  that  Queen  Elizabeth  wrote  her 
a letter  of  invitation  to  the  Court,  in  consequence  of  which  Grace,  with  some  of  her 
galleys,  set  sail  for  London,  about  the  year  1575,  and  she  was  received  at  Court  with  great 
honour  by  the  Queen,  who  offered  to  create  her  a Countess,  which  honour  Grace  declined, 
answering,  that  both  of  them  being  Princesses,  they  were  equal  in  rank,  and  they  could 
therefore  confer  no  honours  on  each  other;  but  Grace  said  that  her  Majesty  might  confer 
any  title  she  pleased  on  her  young  son,  a child  which  was  born  on  ship-board  during  her 
voyage  to  England ; and  it  is  said  that  the  Queen  knighted  the  child,  who  was  called  by  the 
Irish  Tioboid-na-Lung,  signifying  Theobald  of  the  Ships,  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
being  born  on  ship-board ; and  this  Sir  Theobald  Burke  was  created  Viscount  of  Mayo  by 
Charles  I. 

“ The  well-known  circumstance  of  her  carrying  off  the  young  heir  of  St.  Laurence  from 
Howth,  as  a punishment  for  his  father’s  want  of  hospitality  in  having  the  Castle  gates 
'Tosed  during  dinner-time,  occurred  on  her  return  from  England. 

“ Grace  endowed  a monastery  on  Clare  Island,  off  the  coast  of  Mayo,  where  she  was 
buried,  and  it  is  said  some  remains  of  her  monument  are  still  to  be  seen  there. 

“ Grace  O’Malley  has  been  long  famous  as  an  Irish  heroine  in  the  traditions  of  the  people, 
and  her  name  is  still  remembered  in  song ; in  various  poetical  compositions,  both  in  English 
and  Irish,  her  name  is  celebrated;  and  in  these  songs  Ireland  is  generally  personified  under 
the  designation  of  Granu  Wail.  One  of  these,  which  was  very  popular,  was  composed  by 
the  celebrated  Jacobite  Munster  Bard,  Shane  Clarach  Mac  Donnell.” 

Mild  as  the  rose  its  sweets  will  breathe, 

Tho’  gems  all  bright  its  bloom  enwreath; 

Undeck’d  by  gold  or  diamond  rare, 

Near  Albion’s  throne  stood  Grana  fair.f 

* Carrigahooly — in  Irish,  Carrick-a-Uile — signifying,  The  rock  in  the  Elbow. 

t The  Queen,  surrounded  by  her  ladies,  received  her  in  great  state.  Grana  was  intro- 
duced in  the  dress  of  her  country : a long  uncouth  mantle  covered  her  head  and  body ; her 
hair  was  gathered  on  her  crown,  and  fastened  with  a bodkin;  her  breast  was  bare,  and  she 
had  a yellow  bodice  and  petticoat.  The  Court  stared  with  surprise  at  so  strange  a figure.” — 
Autfyologiq  Hibernicp. 


HISTOSICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SOXGS. 


249 


The  vestal  Queen  in  'wonder  view’d 
The  hand  that  grasp’d  the  falchion  rude — 

The  azure  eye,  whose  light  could  prove 
The  equal  power  in  war  or  love. 

“ Some  boon,”  she  cried,  “ thou  lady  brave, 

From  Albion’s  Queen  in  pity  crave ; 

E’en  name  the  rank  of  Countess  high, 

Nor  fear  the  suit  I’ll  e’er  deny.” 

“Nay,  sister-Queen,”  tbe  fair  replied, 

“ A Sov’reign,  and  an  bero’s  bride ; 

No  fate  shall  e’er  of  pride  bereave — 

I’ll  honours  give,  but  none  receive. 

“ But  grant  to  him — whose  infant  sleep 
Is  lull’d  by  rocking  o’er  the  deep — 

Those  gifts,  which  now  for  Erin’s  sake 
Thro’  pride  of  soul  I dare  nor  take.” 

The  Queen  on  Grana  gazed  and  smil’d, 

And  honour’d  soon  the  stranger  child 
With  titles  brave,  to  grace  a name 
Of  Erin’s  isle  in  herald  fame. 

“Grana  Uile  ” was  one  of  the  many  names  typical  of  Ireland,  and  continued  to  be  so  to 
a late  period.  The  mere  playing  of  the  tune,  which  is  an  old  pipe  march,  had  always  a 
political  significance. 


12* 


THE  MAIDEN  CITY. 

By  Charlotte  Elizabeth,  authoress  of  “The  Siege  of  Derry,”  &c. 

Here  is  a political  song  by  a lady,  and— 'place  aux  dames— it  holds  the  leading  place 
among  the  poems  of  the  time.  It  is  by  “Charlotte  Elizabeth.” — And  who  is  she  ? We  know 
not: — but  as  the  lady  rejoices  in  a nom  de  guerre , it  is  quite  natural  she  should  choose  a 
siege  for  her  subject;  and  “A  Maiden  City”  is  a fit  theme  for  rejoicing  at  a lady’s  hands. 
Thus  our  fair  authoress  has  a double  right  to  be  the  spirited  chronicler  of  the  spirited 
defence  of  that  famous  old  maid,  Derry : — I hope  one  may  say  old  maid , without  offence,  to 
a city. 

TV  here  Foyle  his  swelling  waters 
Rolls  northward  to  the  main, 

Here,  Queen  of  Erin’s  daughters, 

Fair  Derry  fixed  her  reign  : 

A holy  temple  crowned  her, 

And  commerce  graced  her  street, 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


251 


A rampart  wall  was  round  her, 

The  river  at  her  feet ; 

And  here  she  sate  alone,  boys, 

And,  looking  from  the  hill, 

Vow’d  the  Maiden  on  her  throne,  boys, 
Would  be  a Maiden  still. 

From  Antrim  crossing  over, 

In  famous  eighty- eight, 

A plumed  and  belted  lover 
Came  to  the  Ferry  Grate : 

She  summon’d  to  defend  her 
Our  sires — a beardless  race — * 

They  shouted  No  Surrender  ! 

And  slamm’d  it  in  his  face. 

Then,  in  a quiet  tone,  boys, 

They  told  him  ’twas  their  will 
That  the  Maiden  on  her  throne,  boys, 
Should  be  a Maiden  still. 


Next,  crushing  all  before  him, 

A kingly  wooer  came, 

(The  royal  banner  o’er  him, 

Blushed  crimson  deep  for  shame  ;) 
He  show’d  the  Pope’s  commission, 
Nor  dream’d  to  be  refused, 

She  pitied  his  condition, 

But  begg’d  to  stand  excused. 

In  short,  the  fact  is  known,  boys, 
She  chased  him  from  the  hill, 

For  the  Maiden  on  the  throne,  boys, 
Would  be  a Maiden  still. 


On  our  brave  sires  descending, 

’Twas  then  the  tempest  broke, 
Their  peaceful  dwellings  rending, 
’Mid  blood,  and  flame,  and  smoke. 
That  hallow’d  grave-yard  yonder, 
Swells  with  the  slaughter’d  dead — 
Oh,  brothers ! pause  and  ponder, 

It  was  foi  us  they  bled ; 

And  while  their  gifts  we  own,  boys — 
The  fane  that  tops  our  hill, 

Oh,  the  Maiden  on  her  throne,  boys, 
Shall  be  a Maiden  still. 


* The  famous  “’Prentice  Boys.5 


252 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


Nor  wily  tongue  shall  move  us, 

Nor  tyrant  arm  affright, 

We’ll  look  to  One  above  us 
Who  ne’er  forsook  the  right ; 

Who  will,  may  crouch  and  tender 
The  birthright  of  the  free, 

But,  brothers,  No  Surrender  ! 

No  compromise  for  me! 

We  want  no  harrier  stone,  hoys, 

No  gates  to  guard  the  hill, 

Yet  the  Maiden  on  her  throne,  hoys, 

Shall  he  a Maiden  still. 

The  gallant  defence  of  Derry  is  too  prominent  a point  in  history  to  need  any  editorial 
assistance  to  the  memory  of  the  reader.  This  general  observation  may  be  made,  however, 
that  the  courage  of  both  parties  in  that  civil  war  was  equally  displayed  on  many  a hard- 
fought  field,  and  the  Derry  of  the  North  had  a counterpart  of  obstinate  defence  in  the 
Limerick  of  the  South.  O’Driscoll,  in  his  History  of  Ireland,  says,  “ The  defence  of  Derry 
has  been  much  celebrated,  but  never  beyond,  hardly  ever  as  much  as  it  merited.”  This 
seems  to  be  the  opinion  of  the  writer  of  some  spirited  lines,  which  cannot  be  quoted  at 
length  in  a note,  beginning, — 

“Derriana!  lovely  dame, 

By  many  suitors  courted 

thus  treating  the  subject  in  the  commencement  as  the  fair  authoress  above  has  done,  but 
afterwards  indulging  in  a classic  vein,  he  concludes  with  these  four  admirable  verses:— 

“ What  was  proud  Troy  compared  to  thee, 

Though  Hector  did  command  her  ? 

How  great  thy  Foyle  would  seem  to  be 
Near  Homer’s  old  Scamander ! 

Like  thee,  two  sieges  sharp  she  stood, 

By  timid  friends  forsaken ; 

But,  unlike  thee,  twice  drenched  in  blood, 

She  fainted  and  was  taken. 

What  was  her  cause  compared  to  thine? 

A harlot  she  protected; 

But  thou  for  liberty  divine 
All  compromise  rejected. 

But  Troy  a bard  of  brilliant  mind 
Found  out  to  sing  her  glory, 

Whilst  thou  canst  only  dunces  find 
To  mar  thy  greater  story.” 

The  modest  writer  of  these  lines  himself,  and  the  fair  authoress  of  w The  Maiden  City,” 
are  exceptions  to  the  censure  expressed  in  the  last  verse. 


HISTOllICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


253 


KING  JAMES’S  WELCOME  TO  IRELAND. 

1690. 

The  king  entered  Dublin  on  the  24th  March.  It  is  said  he  “rid  on  a pad-nag  in  a plain 
cinnamon-coloured  cloth  suit,  and  black  slouching  hat,  and  a George  hung  over  his 
shoulder  with  a blue  ribbon.”  Now,  whether  it  was  the  king  or  the  pad-nag  that  wore  the 
cinnamon-coloured  suit  and  the  slouched  hat,  we  are  left  in  doubt.  As  far  as  the  gram- 
matical construction  goes  the  pad-nag  has  the  best  of  it,  by  far,  as  to  the  coat  and  hat ; but 
we  incline  to  believe,  nevertheless,  that  it  was  the  king  who  was  the  wearer  of  the  aforesaid ; 
besides,  putting  other  probabilities  aside,  what  pad-nag  would  dare  to  wear  his  hat  under 
the  king’s  nose  in  that  manner  ? Well,  leaving  that  matter,  there  was  a line  of  soldiers,  and 
the  streets  were  gravelled;  and  it  would  have  been  well  for  poor  King  James  if  that  was  the 
only  path  of  his,  so  bestrewed,  in  Ireland.  There  was  a platform  erected  at  a certain  part, 
covered  with  tapestry,  whereon  were  two  harpers  playing  and  persons  singing ; and  forty 
girls,  dressed  in  white,  danced  along  by  the  side  of  the  king,  here  and  there  strewing  flowers. 
Those  who  wished  to  make  light  of  this  ceremonial  declared  these  dancing-girls,  so 
arrayed,  were  but  “ oyster- wenches,”— they  who  strewed  the  flowers,  “herb-women.”  Here, 
however,  follows  the  song,  supposed  to  be  sung  upon  the  occasion : — 

Play,  piper — play, 

Come,  lasses,  dance  and  sing, 

And  old  harpers  strike  up 
To  harp  for  the  King. 

He  is  come — he  is  come, 

Let  us  make  Ireland  ring 
With  a loud  shout  of  welcome, 

May  God  save  the  King. 

Bring  ye  flowers — bring  ye  flowers, 

The  fresh  flowers  of  spring, 

To  strew  in  the  pathway 
Of  James,  our  true  King. 

And  better  than  flowers, 

May  our  good  wishes  bring 
A long  life  of  glory 

To  James,  our  true  King, 

Huzza,  then — huzza,  then, 

The  news  on  the  wing, 

Triumphant  he  comes 

Amid  shouts  for  the  King, 

All  blessings  attend  him, 

May  every  good  thing 
Be  showered  on  the  brave  head 
Of  James,  our  true  King. 


254 


HISTORICAL  AN  if  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


LILLI  BURLERO. 

In  a section  devoted  to  the  historical  and  political  songs  of  Ireland,  it  is  impossible  to 
omit  Lilli  Burlero ; but  it  is  only  as  a matter  of  curiosity  it  is  entitled  to  a place,  for  such 
wretched  rubbish  has  no  literary  claim  to  be  recorded.  Pages  of  notes  might  be  made 
upon  it ; but  for  the  general  reader  they  would  have  no  interest,  and  those  who  are  curious 
on  such  matters  either  know  its  history  already,  or  can  refer  to  the  proper  quarters  to  find 
it.  Bishop  Percy,  in  his  “ Eeliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry,”  speaks  of  it.  It  is  noticed 
in  “Bishop  Burnet’s  History  of  his  Own  Times.”  The  former  goes  so  far  as  to  say  it  con- 
tributed not  a little  to  the  great  revolution  of  1688.  Can  we  believe  it  ? The  latter  very 
properly  calls  it  “ a foolish  ballad,”  but  adds,  “ it  made  an  impression  on  the  army  that 
cannot  be  imagined  by  those  who  saw  it  not.’’  That  it  was  wonderfully  popular  there  can 
be  no  doubt,  for  it  is  alluded  to  in  many  publications  of  the  period.  And  that  the 
tune  continued  to  hold  the  public  ear,  is  evident,  by  Sterne,  in  his  “ Tristram  Shandy,” 
(eighty  years  after  Lilli  Burlero  was  written,)  making  Uncle  Toby  whistle  it  on  various 
occasions.  Indeed,  for  that  matter,  the  tune  has  reached  our  own  times,  and  has  created 
discussion  as  to  its  authorship.  By  some  it  is  attributed  to  the  celebrated  Henry  Purcell ; 
others  say  it  is  derived  from  an  old  air  printed  in  1661,  in  a collection  entitled  “ An  Antidote 
to  Melancholy ,”  to  which  verses  were  attached,  beginning — 

“There  was  an  old  fellow  at  Walton-cross, 

Who  merrily  sang  when  he  liv’d  by  the  loss.’* 

As  political  songs,  however,  are  generally  adapted  to  some  air  already  popular,  (thus  suiting 
the  thing  it  is  desired  should  fly  abroad,  with  ready-made  wings,)  I think  it  more  likely  the 
rhymes  were  written  to  some  then-existing  air,  than  that  an  air  was  composed  for  them ; 
and  this  seems  to  be  the  opinion,  also,  of  my  friend,  Mr.  William  Chappell,  as  may  be 
inferred  from  a passage  in  his  admirable  and  most  interesting  work,  “ Popular  Music  of  the 
Olden  Time,”  where  the  music  and  words  of  the  old  song  are  given  (p.  262)  with  the  fol- 
lowing note : — 

“ The  four  last  bars  of  the  air  are  the  prototype  of  Lilli  burlero,  and  still  often  sung  to 
the  chorus — 

‘A  very  good  song,  and  very  well  sung, 

Jolly  companions  every  one.’” 

That  so  much  discussion  should  have  taken  place  about  a matter  which  is  not  of  the 
slightest  importance,  is  collateral  proof  of  the  hold  which  this  strange  stuff  took  of  the 
public  mind.  The  authorship  of  the  words  was  attributed  to  Lord  Wharton. 

Ho  ! brother  Teague,  dost  hear  de  decree, 

Lilli  burlero  bullen  a la ; 

Dat  we  shall  have  a new  debittie  ( deputy J, 

Lilli  burlero  bullen  a la, 

Lero,  lero,  lero,  lero,  lilli  burlero  bullen  a la, 

Lero,  lero,  lero,  lero,  lilli  burlero  bullen  a la. 

Ho ! by  my  shoul  it  is  a T 1 ( Talbot ), 

Lilli,  &c. 

And  he  will  cut  all  the  English  t 1 (throat ), 

Lilli,  &c. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


255 


Though  by  my  shoul  de  English  do  prat, 

Lilli,  See.. 

De  law’s  on  dare  side,  and  Chreist  knows  what, 
Lilli,  &c. 

But  if  dispense  do  come  from  de  Pope, 

Lilli,  &c. 

We’ll  hang  Magno  Carto  and  demselves  in  a rope, 
Lilli,  &c. 

And  the  good  T 1 (Talbot)  is  made  a lord, 

Lilli,  &c. 

And  he  with  brave  lads  is  coming  aboard, 

Lilli,  &c. 

Who  all  in  France  have  taken  a swear, 

Lilli,  &c. 

Dat  dey  will  have  no  Protestant  h — r (heir)y 
Lilli,  &c. 

0 ! but  why  does  he*  stay  behind  ? 

Lilli,  &c. 

Ho ! by  my  shoul  ’tis  a Protestant  wind,f 
Lilli,  &c. 

How  T 1 ( Tyrconnel)  is  come  ashore, 

Lilli,  &c. 

And  we  shall  have  commissions  gillore, 

Lilli,  &c. 

And  he  dat  will  not  go  to  m — ss  ( mass )} 

Lilli,  &c. 

Shall  turn  out  and  look  like  an  ass, 

Lilli,  &c. 

How,  now  de  heretics  all  go  down, 

Lilli,  &c. 

By  Chreist  and  St.  Patrick  de  nation’s  our  own, 
Lilli,  &c. 

There  was  an  old  prophecy  found  in  a bog, 

Lilli,  &c. 

That  Ireland  should  be  rul’d  bj’  an  ass  and  a dog : 
Lilli,  &c. 


* King  James. 

t At  the  time  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  expected  to  sail  from  Holland,  the  direction  of 
the  wind  was  regarded  with  much  anxiety ; if  it  blew  in  the  direction  of  England,  it  was 
called  a Protestant  wind ; if  in  the  contrary,  a Catholic  wind. 


256 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


And  now  this  prophecy  is  come  to  pass, 

Lilli,  &e. 

For  T — hut’s  (Talbot's)  the  dog,  and  Tyr — nel’sj  (TyrconneV s)  the  ass, 
Lilli,  &c. 

% In  some  versions  it  has  been  given  “ and  James  is  de  Ass.” 


DRIMMIN  DHU.  • 

An  Irish  Jacobite  relic.  Translated  by  Samuel  Ferguson,  M.R.I.A, 

“Drimmin Dhu”  was  apolitical  pass-word  among  the  Irish  Jacobites,  and  it  is  rather 
amusing  here  to  find  the  Jacobite  bard  wrapping  himself  up  in  his  cloak  of  mystery  for  the 
first  three  lines,  and  then  coming  out  plump  with 

“Expecting  King  James  with  the  crown  on  his  brow.” 

It  reminds  one  of  that  intelligent  sentinel  who,  being  given  the  pass-word,  and  desired  to 
let  no  one  enter  within  his  guard  who  did  not  repeat  it,  told  the  first  person  who  asked  for 
admission,  that  he  couldn’t  come  in,  unless  he  said  so-and-so — naming  the  very  pass-word. 

Ah,  Drimmin  Dhu  deelish,  a pride  of  the  flow,* 

Ah,  where  are  your  folks  ? Are  they  living  or  no  ? 

They’re  down  in  the  ground,  ’neath  the  sod  lying  low, 
Expecting  King  James  with  the  crown  on  his  brow. 

But  if  I could  get  sight  of  the  crown  on  his  brow, 

By  night  and  day  travelling  to  London  I’d  go  ; 

Over  mountains  of  mist  and  soft  mosses  below, 

Till  I’d  heat  on  the  kettle-drums,  Drimmin  Dliu,  0 ! 

Welcome  home,  welcome  home,  Drimmin  Dhu,  0 ! 

Good  was  your  sweet  milk,  for  drinking,  I trow ; 

With  your  face  like  a rose,  and  your  dew-lap  of  snow, 

I’ll  part  from  you  never,  ah,  Drimmin  Dhu,  0 ! 

* The  soft  grassy  part  of  a bog. 

There  is  a very  sweet  and  plaintive  air  called  “Drimmin  Dhub,”  to  which  is  sung  an 
old  Irish  song  called  “ The  Poor  Irishman’s  Lament  for  the  Loss  of  his  Cow,”  “ Drimmin 
Dhub”  signifying  black-back,  a pet  name  for  the  cow.  In  “Bunting’s  Ancient  Music  of 
Ireland,”  (Dublin,  1840,)  the  following  translation  is  given — 

“ As  I went  out  on  a Sunday  morning, 

I found  my  Drimmin  Dhu  drown’d  in  a moss-hole ; 

I clapped  my  hands,  and  gave  a great  shout, 

In  hopes  this  would  bring  my  Drimmin  to  life  agairfe* 

I have  heard  other  versions  of  this  ditty,  more  modern,  but  equally  absurd. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


257 


0!  SAY,  MY  BROWN  DRIMMIN. 

An  Irish  Jacobite  relic.  Translated  by  J.  J.  Callanan. 

Here  is  another  form  of  the  foregoing  ballad.  Points  of  resemblance  are  sufficiently 
apparent  between  them,  but  even  in  their  original  state  they  must  have  existed  “with  a 
difference,”  as  Ophelia  says,  the  latter  version  being  more  copious,  and  including  proper 
names  that  could  not  have  been  introduced  at  the  option  of  the  translator.  It  seems  to  me 
this  latter  version  comes  from  a better  original  than  the  preceding,  as  saying  the  people 
will  arise  “as  leaves  on  the  trees;” — and  the  mention  of  the  “five  ends  of  Erin,”  gives  an 
air  of  old  Irish  idiom  and  old  Irish  lore  to  the  production. 

0 ! say,  my  brown  Drimmin,  thou  silk*  of  the  kine, 

Where,  where  are  thy  strong  ones,  last  hope  of  thy  line  ? 

Too  deep  and  too  long  is  the  slumber  they  take ; 

At  the  loud  call  of  freedom  why  don’t  they  awake  ? 

My  strong  ones  have  fallen — from  the  bright  eye  of  day 
All  darkly  they  sleep  in  their  dwelling  of  clay, 

The  cold  turf'  is  o’er  them — they  hear  not  my  cries, 

And  since  Lewisf  no  aid  gives,  I cannot  arise. 

0 ! where  art  thou,  Lewis  ? our  eyes  are  on  thee — 

Are  thy  lofty  ships  walking  in  strength  o’er  the  sea? 

In  freedom’s  last  strife  if  you  linger  or  quail, 

No  morn  e’er  shall  break  on  the  night  of  the  Gael. 

But  should  the  king’s  son,  now  bereft  of  his  right, 

Come  proud  in  his  strength  for  his  country  to  tight ; 

Like  leaves  on  the  trees,  will  new  people  arise, 

And  deep  from  their  mountains  shout  back  to  my  cries. 

When  the  prince,  new  an  exile,  shall  come  for  his  own, 

The  isles  of  his  father,  his  rights,  and  his  throne, 

My  people  in  battle  the  Saxons  will  meet, 

And  kick  them  before,  like  old  shoes  from  their  feet. 

O’er  mountains  and  valleys  they’ll  press  on  their  rout, 

The  five  ends  of  ErinJ  shall  ring  to  their  shout ; 

My  sons,  all  united,  shall  bless  the  glad  day 

When  the  fiint-hearted  Saxon  they’ve  chased  far  away. 


* Silk  of  the  kine  is  an  idiomatic  expression  in  the  Irish  language  to  express  superior 
cattle. 

f The  king  of  France. 

% Ireland,  now  divided  into  four  provinces,  was  anciently  divided  into  five  sections,  or 
rather  kingdoms. 


253 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


THE  BOYNE  WATER. 

Here  are  some  fragments  of  what  is  supposed  to  be  the  original  song  whence  the  succeed- 
ing one  of  “ The  Battle  of  the  Boyne”  was  taken.  They  possess  more  of  the  ballad  charac- 
ter, in  simplicity  of  expression  and  accuracy  of  detail,  than  the  later  composition. 

J uly  the  first,  of  a morning  clear,  one  thousand  six  hundred  and 
ninety, 

King  William  did  his  men  prepare,  of  thousands  he  had  thirty  ; 

To  fight  King  James  and  all  his  foes,  encamped  near  the  Boyne  Water, 
He  little  feared,  though  two  to  one,  their  multitudes  to  scatter. 

King  William  called  his  officers ; saying,  “ gentlemen,  mind  your 
station, 

And  let  your  valour  here  be  shown,  before  this  Irish  nation ; 

My  brazen  walls  let  no  man  break,  and  your  subtle  foes  you’ll  scatter, 
Be  sure  you  show  them  good  English  play,  as  you  go  over  the  water.” 

****** 

Both  foot  and  horse  they  marched  on,  intending  them  to  batter, 

But  the  brave  Duke  Schomberg  he  was  shot,  as  he  crossed  over  the  water. 
When  that  King  William  he  observ’d  the  brave  Duke  Schomberg  falling, 
He  rein’d  his  horse,  with  a heavy  heart,  on  the  Enniskilleners*  calling; 

“ What  will  you  do  for  me,  brave  boys,  see  yonder  men  retreating, 
Our  enemies  encouraged  are — and  English  drums  are  beating 
He  says,  “ My  boys,  feel  no  dismay  at  the  losing  of  one  commander, 
For  God  shall  be  our  King  this  day,  and  I’ll  be  general  under. ”f 

****** 

Within  four  yards  of  our  fore-front,  before  a shot  was  fired, 

A sudden  snuff  they  got  that  day,  which  little  they  desired ; 

For  horse  and  man  fell  to  the  ground,  and  some  hung  in  their  saddles, 
Others  turn’d  up  their  forked  ends,  which  we  call  coup  de  ladle. 

Prince  Eugene’s  regiment  was  the  next,  on  our  right  hand  advanced, 
Into  a field  of  standing  wheat,  where  Irish  horses  pranced — 

But  the  brand}'-  ran  so  in  their  heads,  their  senses  all  did  scatter, 
They  little  thought  to  leave  their  bones  that  day  at  the  Boyne  Water. 

* It  is  interesting  to  find  this  early  mention  of  a regiment  that  has  since  been  so 
distinguished  on  many  a battle-field.  They  fought  triumphantly  throughout  the  last 
Peninsular  war,  and  against  the  Cuirassiers  of  Napoleon  the  First,  at  Waterloo ; and  their 
last  achievement  was  at  Balaklava,  where,  (to  use  the  words  of  our  eloquent  countryman, 
AVilliam  Russell,  the  correspondent  of  the  Times,)  in  company  with  the  Scots  Greys  and  the 
Dragoon  Guards  of  England,  they  swept  through  the  solid  masses  of  the  Russian  cavalry, 
like  a flash  of  lightning. 

f This  fine  line  is  preserved  hi  the  later  song. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


259 


Both  men  and  horse  lay  on  the  ground,  and  many  there  lay  bleeding, 
I saw  no  sickles  there  that  day — but  sure,  there  was  sharp  shearing. 
****** 

Now,  praise  God,  all  true  Protestants,  and  heaven’s  and  earth’s 
Creator, 

For  the  deliverance  that  he  sent  our  enemies  to  scatter. 

The  church’s  foes  will  pine  away,  like  churlish-hearted  Nabal, 

For  our  deliverer  came  this  day  like  the  great  Zorobabel. 

So  praise  God,  all  true  Protestants,  and  I will  say  no  further, 

But  had  the  Papists  gain’d  the  day,  there  would  have  been  open 
murder.  J 

Although  King  James  and  many  more  was  ne’er  that  way  inclined, 

It  was  not  in  their  power  to  stop  what  the  rabble  they  designed.  § 

t This  also  is  imitated  in  the  same. 

§ This  clearing'  of  King  James  and  the  leaders  of  the  opposite  party  from  all  intention  of 
such  barbarous  doings  as  are  imputed  to  the  “ rabble,”  is  a stroke  of  generosity  seldom  seen 
in  a party  effusion,  and  much  to  be  admired.  How  often  have  great  names  been  stained  by 
the  misdeeds  of  their  followers,  which  it  was  out  of  their  power  to  prevent. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BOYNE. 

This  is  the  version  of  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne  which  superseded  the  former,  and  is  tlifi 
one  that  is  always  sung. 

July  the  first,  in  Oldbridge-town 
There  was  a grievous  battle, 

Where  many  a man  lay  on  the  ground 
By  cannons  that  did  rattle. 

King  James  he  pitched  his  tents  between 
The  lines  for  to  retire ; 

But  King  William  threw  his  bomb-balls  in, 

And  set  them  all  on  fire. 

Thereat  enraged,  they  vowed  revenge 
Upon  King  William’s  forces, 

And  oft  did  vehemently  cry 

That  they  would  stop  their  courses. 

A bullet  from  the  Irish  came, 

And  grazed  King  William’s  arm, 

They  thought  his  Majesty  was  slain, 

Yet  it  did  him  little  harm. 


260 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


Duke  Schomberg  then,  in  friendly  care, 

His  King  would  often  caution 
To  slum  the  spot  where  bullets  hot 
Detained  their  rapid  motion ; 

But  William  said,  “ He  don’t  deserve 
The  name  of  Faith’s  Defender, 

Who  would  not  venture  life  and  limb 
To  make  a foe  surrender.” 

When  we  the  Boyne  began  to  cross, 

The  enemy  they  descended ; 

But  few  of  our  brave  men  were  lost, 

So  stoutly  we  defended ; 

The  horse  was  the  first  that  marched  o’er, 

The  foot  soon  followed'  after ; 

But  brave  Duke  Schomberg  was  no  more, 

By  venturing  over  the  water. 

When  valiant  Schomberg  he  was  slain, 

King  William  he  accosted 
His  warlike  men  for  to  march  on, 

And  he  would  be  the  foremost ; 

“Brave  boys,”  he  said,  “be  not  dismayed 
For  the  loss  of  one  commander, 

For  God  will  be  our  King  this  day, 

And  I’ll  be  General  under.” 

Then  stoutly  we  the  Boyne  did  cross, 

To  give  the  enemies  battle ; 

Our  cannon,  to  our  foes  great  cost, 

Like  thund’ring  claps  did  rattle. 

In  majestic  mein  our  prince  rode  o’er ; 

His  men  soon  followed  after, 

With  blows  and  shout  put  our  foes  to  the  rout 
The  day  we  crossed  the  water. 

The  Protestants  of  Drogheda 
Have  reason  to  be  thankful, 

That  they  were  not  to  bondage  brought, 

They  being  but  a handful. 

First  to  the  Tholsel  they  were  brought, 

And  tied  at  Millmount  after ; * 

But  brave  King  William  set  them  free, 

By  venturing  over  the  water. 

* To  elucidate  this  line,  it  is  necessary  to  refer  to  an  assertion,  which  it  is  only  fair  to 
say  was  made  by  an  anonymous  writer,  to  the  effect,  that  the  Protestant  prisoners  in  the 
hands  of  the  garrison  of  Drogheda  were  tied  together  on  the  Mount,  in  Drogheda,  that,  in 
case  of  William  bombarding  the  town,  they  must  have  been  exposed  to  the  fire. — Memoirs 
qf  Ireland,  by  the  author  of  the  Secret  History  of  Europe,  1716;  p.  221. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL*  SONGS. 


261 


The  cunning  French  near  to  Duleek 
Had  taken  up  their  quarters, 

And  fenced  themselves  on  every  side, 

Still  waiting  for  new  orders  ; 

But  in  the  dead  time  of  the  night 
They  set  the  fields  on  fire, 

And  long  before  the  morning  light 
To  Dublin  they  did  retire. 

Then  said  King  William  to  his  men, 

After  the  French  departed, 

“ I’m  glad,”  said  he,  “that  none  of  ye 
Seem  to  be  faint-hearted  ; 

So  sheathe  your  swords  and  rest  awhile, 

In  time  we’ll  follow  after.” 

Those  words  he  uttered  with  a smile 
The  day  he  crossed  the  water. 

Come,  let  us  all  with  heart  and  voice 
Applaud  our  lives’  defender, 

Who  at  the  Boyne  his  valour  showed, 

And  made  his  foe  surrender. 

To  God  above  the  praise  we’ll  give 
Both  now  and  ever  after ; 

And  bless  the  glorious  memory 

Of  King  William  that  crossed  the  water. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BOYNE. 

Colonel  Blackeb. 

It  cannot  be  wondered  at,  that,  from  the  great  importance  of  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne,  it 
should  have  been  so  celebrated  in  song  by  the  party  which  triumphed.  Having  given  the 
more  modern  song  on  the  occasion,  and  the  fragments  of  the  ancient  one,  a third  ballad  on 
the  subject  may  seem  excessive ; but  it  seems  to  me  so  well  done  as  to  have  an  undeniable 
claim  to  appear;  and  the  soldier-minstrel,  in  a true  soldier-spirit,  has  done  justice  to  the 
gallantry  of  his  countrymen  on  both  sides  of  the  fight,  with  a liberality  as  1 are  as  it  is 
honourable  in  party  chroniclers. 

It  was  upon  a summer’s  morn,  unclouded  rose  the  sun, 

And  lightly  o’er  the  waving  corn  their  way  the  breezes  won ; 
Sparkling  beneath  that  orient  beam,  ’mid  banks  of  verdure  gay, 

Its  eastward  course  a silver  stream  held  smilingly  away. 

A kingly  host  upon  its  side  a monarch  camp’d  around, 

Its  southern  upland  far  and  wide  their  white  pavilions  crowned ; 
Not  long  that  sky  unclouded  show’d,  nor  long  beneath  the  ray 
That  gentle  stream  in  silver  flowed,  to  meet  the  new-born  day. 


262 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


Through  yonder  fairy-haunted  glen,  from  out  that  dark  ravine,* 

Is  heard  the  tread  of  marching  men,  the  gleam  of  arms  is  seen  ; 

And  plashing  forth  in  bright  array  along  yon  verdant  banks, 

All  eager  for  the  coming  fray,  are  rang’d  the  martial  ranks. 

Peals  the  loud  gun — its  thunders  boom  the  echoing  vales  along, 
While  curtain’d  in  its  sulph’rous  gloom  moves  on  the  gallant  throng ; 
And  foot  and  horse  in  mingled  mass,  regardless  all  of  life, 

With  furious  ardour  onward  pass  to  join  the  deadly  strife. 

Nor  strange  that  with  such  ardent  flame  each  glowing  heart  beats  high, 
Their  battle-word  was  William’s  name,  and  “ Death  or  Liberty  !” 
Then,  Oldbridge,  then  thy  peaceful  bowers  with  sounds  unwonted  rang, 
And  Tredagh,  ’mid  thy  distant  towers,  was  heard  the  mighty  clang  ; 

The  silver  stream  is  crimson’d  wide,  and  clogg’d  with  many  a corse, 
As  floating  down  its  gentle  tide  come  mingled  man  and  horse. 

Now  fiercer  grows  the  battle’s  rage,  the  guarded  stream  is  cross’d, 
And  furious,  hand  to  hand  engage  each  bold  contending  host ; 

He  falls — the  veteran  hero  falls,  f renowned  along  the  Rhine — 

And  he , whose  name,  while  Derry’s  walls  endure,  shall  brightly  shine. | 
Oh ! would  to  heav’n  that  churchman  bold,  his  arms  with  triumph  blest, 
The  soldier  spirit  had  controll’d  that  fir’d  his  pious  breast. 

And  he,  the  chief  of  yonder  brave  and  persecuted  band,§ 

Who  foremost  rush’d  amid  the  wave,  and  gain’d  the  hostile  strand  ; — 
He  bleeds,  brave  Caillemote — he  bleeds — ’tis  clos'd,  his  bright  career ; 
Yet  still  that  band  to  glorious  deeds  his  dying  accents  cheer. 

And  now  that  well- contested  strand  successive  columns  gain, 

While  backward  James’s  yielding  band  are  borne  across  the  plain. 

In  vain  the  sword  green  Erin  draws,  and  life  away  doth  fling — 1| 

Oh ! worthy  of  a better  cause  and  of  a bolder  king. 

In  vain  thy  bearing  bold  is  shown  upon  that  blood-stain’d  ground ; 
Thy  tow’ring  hopes  are  overthrown,  thy  choicest  fall  around. 

Nor,  sham’d,  abandon  thou  the  fray,  nor  blush,  though  conquer’d  there, 
A power  against  thee  fights  to-day  no  mortal  arm  may  dare. 

Nay,  look  not  to  that  distant  height  in  hope  of  coming  aid — 

The  dastard  thence  has  ta’en  his  flight,  and  left  thee  all  betray’d. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! the  victor  shout  is  heard  on  high  Donore ; 

Down  Platten’s  vale,  in  hurried  rout,  thy  shatter’d  masses  pour. 

* King  William’s  Glen,  near  Townley  Hall.  f Duke  Schomberg. 

$ Walker,  the  gallant  defender  of  Derry. 

§ Caillemote,  who  commanded  a regiment  of  French  Protestants. 

||  This  is  fair  and  handsome  testimony  to  the  gallantry  of  the  Jacobite  Irish  that  day. 

It  might  be  more  truly  said  that  James’s  courage  forsook  him  that  day,  for  he  was 
not  constitutionally  a coward. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


2G3 


But  many  a gallant  spirit  there  retreats  across  the  plain, 

Who.  change  but  kings,  would  gladly  dare  that  battle-field  again.* 
Enough  ! enough ! the  victor  cries  ; your  fierce  pursuit  forbear, 

Let  grateful  prayer  to  heaven  arise,  and  vanquished  freeman  spare! 

Hurrah  ! hurrah ! for  liberty,  for  her  the  sword  we  drew, 

And  dar’d  the  battle,  while  on  high  our  Orange  banners  flew ; 

Woe  worth  the  hour — woe  worth  the  state,  when  men  shall  cease  to  join 
With  grateful  hearts  to  celebrate  the  glories  of  the  Boyne  ! 

* This  alludes  to  the  expression  attributed  to  Sarsfield — “ Only  change  kings,  and  we 
will  fight  the  battle  over  again.”  A braver  soldier  than  Sarsfield  never  drew  sword.  His 
regiment,  after  repeatedly  repulsing  the  enemy,  was  obliged  to  leave  the  field  as  body-guard 
to  the  king.  Sarsfield  was  very  indignant  at  this,  and  as  his  regiment  was  the  first  to 
retire,  he  insisted  afterwards,  on  the  retrograde  movement  southward,  that  it  should  be  the 
last,  to  cover  the  retreat.  Sarsfield  afterwards  fell  in  battle  in  Flanders,  and  as  his  life- 
blood flowed  from  him,  he  exclaimed — “ Would  that  it  were  shed  for  Ireland  1” 


THE  WHITE  COCKADE. 

Translated  from  the  Irish,  by  J.  J.  Callanaic. 

Ireland  is  not  strong  in  Jacobite  songs;  she  could  not  be  expected  to  compete  in  this 
particular  with  Scotland,  where  the  very  heart  of  the  Jacobite  cause  lay,  and  whose  Jacobite 
relicks  are  some  of  the  finest  things  in  lyric  poetry.  But  Ireland  always  fought,  for  the 
“ white  cockade,”  and  it  may  be  that  love  for  the  white  rose,  which  dated  much  further 
back  than  the  cause  of  the  Stuarts,  had  something  to  do  with  it.  One  of  the  Dukes  of  the 
house  of  York  had  been  Lord  Deputy  in  Ireland,  and  about  the  best  Ireland  ever  had,  and 
Ireland  never  forgot  that  to  the  white  rose. 

King  Charles  lie  is  King  James’s  son, 

And  from  a royal  line  is  sprung  ; 

Then  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade, 

And  we  ’ll  raise  once  more  the  white  cockade. 

0 ! my  dear,  my  fair-hair’ d youth, 

Thou  yet  hast  hearts  of  fire  and  truth ; 

Then  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade — 

We’ll  raise  once  more  the  white  cockade. 

My  young  men’s  hearts  are  dark  with  woe ; 

On  my  virgins’  cheeks  the  grief-drops  flow ; 

The  sun  scarce  lights  the  sorrowing  day, 

Since  our  rightful  prince  went  far  away ; 

He’s  gone,  the  stranger  holds  his  throne ; 

The  royal  bird  far  oil'  is  flown : 

But  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade — 

We’ll  stand  or  fall  with  the  white  cockade. 


264 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


No  more  the  cuckoo  hails  the  spring, 

The  woods  no  more  with  the  stancli-hounds  ring ; 

The  song  from  the  glen,  so  sweet  before, 

Is  hush’d  since  Charles  has  left  our  shore. 

The  prince  is  gone : but  he  soon  will  come, 

W ith  trumpet  sound,  and  with  heat  of  drum  : 

Then  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade — 

Huzza  for  the  right  and  the  white  cockade. 

To  show,  however,  that  Ireland  was  not  deficient  in  wit  on  the  subject  of  the  white  rose, 
the  following  anecdote  may  serve : The  celebrated  Lord  Chesterfield,  who  governed  Ire- 
land “with  rare  ability  and  a most  rare  liberality”*  in  1744,  when  told  by  an  alarmist  that 
the  “ Papists  were  dangerous,”  replied  he  had  never  seen  but  one  dangerous  Papist,  and 

that  was  Miss , a particularly  lovely  woman.  This  lady,  sharing  in  the  admiration 

and  gratitude  of  the  Roman  Catholics,  wished  to  show  the  Earl  how  thoroughly  she  could 
overcome  political  prejudice,  and  on  a public  occasion  at  Dublin  Castle  wore  a breast-knot 
of  orange  ribbon  : the  Earl,  pleased  at  the  incident,  requested  St.  Leger  (afterwards  Lord 
Doner aile),  celebrated  for  his  wit,  to  say  something  handsome  to  her  on  the  occasion.  The 
request  occasioned  the  following  impromptu : — 

“ Say,  little  Tory,  why  this  jest 
Of  wearing  orange  on  thy  breast, 

Since  the  same  breast,  uncover’d,  shows 
The  whiteness  of  the  rebel  rose  ? “ 

* Piet.  Hist.  Eng. 


OYER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY. 

Jacobite  Song,  1715. 

From  the  Irish.  Translated  by  E.  Walsh. 


Once  I bloom’d  a maiden  young  ; 

A widow’s  woe  now  moves  my  tongue ; 

My  true-love’s  barque  ploughs  ocean’s  spray, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

Chorus — Oh ! had  I worlds,  I’d  yield  them  now, 

To  place  me  on  his  tall  barque’s  prow, 

Who  was  my  choice  through  childhood’s  day, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away ! 

Oh ! may  we  yet  our  lov’d  one  meet, 

With  joy-bells’  chime,  and  wild  drums’  beat; 

While  summoning  war-trump  sounds  dismay, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away ! 

Oh ! had  I worlds,  &c. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


265 


Oh. ! that  my  hero  had  his  throne, 

That  Erin’s  cloud  of  care  were  flown. 

That  proudest  prince  would  own  his  sway, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away ! 

Oh ! had  I worlds,  &c. 

My  bosom’s  love,  that  prince  afar, 

Our  king,  our  joy,  our  orient  star ; 

More  sweet  his  voice  than  wild  bird’s  lay, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away ! 

Oh ! had  I worlds,  &c. 

A high  green  hill  I’ll  quickly  climb, 

And  tune  my  harp  to  song  sublime, 

And  chant  his  praise  the  live-long  day, 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away  ! 

Oh ! had  I worlds,  &c. 


TIIE  WILD  GEESE.* 

Dr.  Deennan. 

How  solemn  sad  by  Shannon’s  flood 
The  blush  of  morning  sun  appears  ! 

To  men  who  gave  for  us  their  blood, 

Ah ! what  can  woman  give  but  tears  ? 

How  still  the  field  of  battle  lies  ! 

Ho  shout  upon  the  breeze  has  blown ! 

We  heard  our  dying  country’s  cries, 

We  sit  deserted  and  alone. 

Ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogli  hone,  ogh  hone, 

Ah  ! what  can  woman  give  but  tears  ? 

Why  thus  collected  on  the  strand 
Whom  yet  the  God  of  mercy  saves  ? 

Will  ye  forsake  your  native  land  ? 

W ill  you  desert  your  brothers’  graves  ? 

* This  song  of  Dr.  Drennan’s  celebrates  the  occasion  alluded  to  in  the  note  (f)  to  the 
“ Flower  of  Finac,”  (p.  270,)  when  the  garrison  of  Limerick,  in  a body,  left  their  native 
land.  The  Shannon  being  named  in  the  song,  signally  marks  the  occasion  to  which 
the  action  of  the  song  refers;  added  to  which,  the  wailing  of  the  women  coincides 
with  what  is  said  to  have  happened  on  that  melancholy  occasion,  when  the  moment  of 
embarkation  arrived. 


13 


2G6 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


Their  graves  give  forth  a fearful  groan — 

Oh  ! guard  your  orphans  and  your  wives  ; 
Like  us,  make  Erin’s  cause  your  own, 

Like  us,  for  her  yield  up  your  lives. 

Ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone,  ogh  hone, 
Like  us,  for  her  yield  up  your  lives. 


KATHALEEN  NY-HOULAHAN.* 

A Jacobite  relic— translated  from  the  Irish.  By  James  Clarence  Mangas'. 

Long  they  pine  in  weary  woe,  the  nobles  of  our  land, 

Long  they  wander  to  and  fro,  proscribed,  alas ! and  banned  ; 
Feastless,  houseless,  altarless;  they  bear  the  exile’s  brand  ; 

But  their  hope  is  in  the  coming-to  of  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan! 

Think  her  not  a ghastly  hag,  too  hideous  to  be  seen, 

Call  her  not  unseemly  names,  our  matchless  Kathaleen  ; 

Young  she  is,  and  fair  she  is,  and  would  be  crowned  a queen, 

Were  the  king’s  son  at  home  here  with  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan! 

Sweet  and  mild  would  look  her  face,  0 none  so  sweet  and  mild, 

Could  she  crush  the  foes  by  whom  her  beauty  is  reviled ; 

Woollen  plaids  would  grace  herself  and  robes  of  silk  her  child, 

If  the  king’s  son  were  living  here  with  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan ! 

Sore  disgrace  it  is  to  see  the  arbitress  of  thrones, 

V assal  to  a Saxoneen  of  cold  and  sapless  bones ! 

Bitter  anguish  wrings  our  souls — writh  heavy  sighs  and  groans 

We  wait  the  Young  Deliverer  of  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan ! 

Let  us  pray  to  Him  who  holds  life’s  issues  in  His  hands — 

Him  who  formed  the  mighty  globe,  with  all  its  thousand  lands  ; 
Girdling  them  with  seas  and  mountains,  rivers  deep,  and  strands, 

To  cast  a look  of  pity  upon  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan ! 

He  who  over  sands  and  waves  led  Israel  along — 

He  wrho  fed,  with  heavenly  bread,  that  chosen  tribe  and  throng — 

He  wTho  stood  by  Moses  when  his  foes  were  fierce  and  strong — 

May  He  show  forth  His  might  in  saving  Kathaleen  Ny-Houlahan! 


* One  of  tbe  many  names  by  which  Ireland  was  typified. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


267 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 


This  queer  old  bit  is  undoubtedly  Irish,  although  it  has  appeared  in  a Scottish  collection. 
Its  Hibernian  origin  could  not  be  Questioned,  for  a moment,  by  any  one  familiar  with  the 
phraseology  and  peculiar  structure  of  Anglo-Irish  songs ; besides  which,  there  are  no 
Scotticisms  in  the  verses ; and  the  air,  moreover,  to  which  it  is  sung,  is  Irish,  and  given  in 
Bunting’s  last  collection  (Ancient  Music  of  Ireland  : Dub.  1840),  under  the  title  of  “ The 
Blackbird”  (an  londubh),  and  a noble  air  it  is. 

In  Ireland  “ The  Blackbird”  was  well  understood  to  mean  Prince  Charles  Edward,  and 
the  flight  or  song  of  a bird  was  a poetic  • pretence  for  lamenting  the  exiled  Stuart, 
common  to  Ireland  and  Scotland.  In  the  “Jacobite  Belies”  of  the  latter,  there  is  that 
most  pathetic  song,  “Wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie,”  with  the  peculiarities  of  Scottish 
dialect  throughout : 

“A  wee  bird  cam’  to  our  ha’  door, 

He  warbled  sweet  and  clearly, 

An’  aye  the  o’ercome  o’  his  sang 
Was  “Wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie.” 

I have  noticed,  elsewhere,  that  Ireland  has  nothing  to  be  proud  of  in  Jacobite  songs,  while 
the  “Jacobite  Belies”  of  Scotland  are  among  the  very  treasures  of  her  minstrelsy. 

Once  on  a morning  of  sweet  recreation, 

I heard  a fair  lady  a-making  her  moan, 

With  sighing  and  sobbing,  and  sad  lamentation, 

Aye  singing,  “ My  Blackbird  for  ever  is  flown  ! 

He’s  all  my  heart’s  treasure,  my  joy,  and  my  pleasure, 

So  justly,  my  love,  my  heart  follows  thee ; 

And  I am  resolved,  in  foul  or  fair  weather, 

To  seek  out  my  Blackbird,  wherever  he  he. 

“I  will  go,  a stranger  to  peril  and  danger, 

My  heart  is  so  loyal  in  every  degree ; 

For  he’s  constant  and  kind,  and  courageous  in  mind : 

Good  luck  to  my  Blackbird,  wherever  he  he  ! 

In  Scotland  he’s  loved  and  dearly  approved, 

In  England  a stranger  he  seemeth  to  he ; 

But  his  name  I’ll  advance  in  Ireland  or  France. 

Good  luck  to  my  Blackbird,  wherever  he  he. 

“ The  birds  of  the  forest  are  all  met  together 
The  turtle  is  chosen  to  dwell  with  the  dove, 

And  I am  resolved  in  foul  or  fair  weather, 

Once  in  the  spring-time  to  seek  out  my  love. 

But  since  fickle  Fortune,  which  still  proves  uncertain, 

Hath  caused  this  parting  between  him  and  me, 

His  right  I’ll  proclaim,  and  who  dares  me  blame  ? 

Good  luck  to  my  Blackbird,  wherever  he  he.’* 


THE  SOLDIER. 

From  “Songs  and  Ballads,”  by  Samuel  Lovee. 

Tbis  soldier  is  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  many  whom  the  p§nal  laws  forced  to  fight  under 
foreign  banners,  and  we  may  imagine  the  battle-field  to  have  been  in  Flanders. 

’Tayas  a glorious  day,  worth  a warrior’s  telling, 

Two  kings  had  fought,  and  the  fight  was  done, 

When,  ’midst  the  shout  of  victory  swelling, 

A soldier  fell  on  the  field  he  won. 

He  thought  of  kings  and  of  royal  quarrels, 

And  thought  of  glory,  without  a smile : 

For  what  had  he  to  do  with  laurels  ? 

He  was  only  one  of  the  rank  and  file. 

But  he  pull’d  out  his  little  cruiskeen* 

And  drank  to  his  pretty  colleen,  f 

“ Oh  darling  ! ” says  he,  “ when  I die 
You  won’t  he  a widow — for  why  P 
Ah  ! you  never  would  have  me,  vourneen”\ 

A raven  tress  from  his  bosom  taking, 

That  now  was  stain’d  with  his  life-stream  shed, 

■ A fervent  pray’r  o’er  that  ringlet  making, 

He  blessings  sought  on  the  lov’d  one’s  head. 


* Dram-bottle. 


t Girl, 


X Darling, 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


269 


And  visions  fair  of  his  native  mountains 
Arose — enchanting  his  fading  sight, 

Their  emerald  valleys  and  crystal  fountains 
W ere  never  shining  more  fair  and  bright ; 

And  grasping  his  little  cruiskeen, 

He  pledg’d  the  dear  island  of  green  ; 

‘ ‘ Though  far  from  thy  valleys  I die, 

Dearest  isle,  to  my  heart  thou  art  nigh, 

As  though  absent  I never  had  been.” 

A tear  now  fell — for,  as  life  was  sinking, 

The  pride  that  guarded  his  manly  eye 
Was  weaker  grown — and  his  last  fond  thinking 
Brought  heaven,  and  home,  and  his  true  love  nigh. 
But,  with  the  fire  of  his  gallant  nation, 

He  scorn’d  to  surrender  without  a blow! 

He  made  with  death  capitulation, 

And  with  warlike  honours  he  still  would  go  ! 

For,  draining  his  little  cruiskeen , 

He  drank  to  his  cruel  colleen , 

To  the  emerald  land  of  his  birth — 

And  lifeless  he  sank  to  the  earth 
Brave  a soldier  as  ever  was  seen. 


TnE  FLOWER  OF  FINAE. 

Thomas  Davis. 

This  charming'  ballad,  in  its  descriptiveness,  its  tenderness,  and  dramatic  power,  is  well 
worthy  of  the  author’s  high  reputation. 

Bright  red  is  the  sun  on  the  waves  of  Lough  Sheelin, 

A cool  gentle  breeze  from  the  mountain  is  stealing, 

While  fair  round  its  islets  the  small  ripples  play, 

But  fairer  than  all  is  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

Her  hair  is  like  night,  and  her  eyes  like  grey  morning, 

She  trips  on  the  heather  as  if  its  touch  scorning, 

Yet  her  heart  and  her  lips  are  as  mild  as  May  day, 

Sweet  Eily  Mac  Mahon,  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

But  who  down  the  hill  side  than  red  deer  runs  fleeter  ? 

And  who  on  the  lake  side  is  hastening  to  greet  her  ? 

Who,  but  Fergus  O’ Farrell,  the  fiery  and  gay, 

The  darling  and  pride  of  the  Flower  of  Finae. 


270 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


One  kiss  and  one  clasp,  and  one  wild  look  of  gladness ; 

Ah ! why  do  they  change  on  a sudden  to  sadness — 

He  has  told  his  hard  fortune,  nor  more  he  can  stay ; 

He  must  leave  his  poor  Eily  to  pine  at  Finae. 

For  Fergus  O’ Farrell  was  true  to  his  sire-land, 

And  the  dark  hand  of  tyranny  drove  him  from  Ireland ; 

He  joins  the  Brigade,  in  the  wars  far  away, 

But  he  vows  he’ll  come  hack  to  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

He  fought  at  Cremona — she  hears  of  his  story  ; 

He  fought  at  Cassano— she’s  proud  of  his  glor}’- ; 

Yet  sadly  she  sings  “ Shule  Aroon ’’*  all  the  day, 

“ Oh,  come,  come,  my  darling,  come  home  to  Finae.” 

Eight  long  years  have  pass’d,  till  she’s  nigh  broken-hearted, 

Her  “reel,”  and  her  “rock,”  and  her  “flax”  she  has  parted  ;* 
She  sails  with  the  “Wild  Geese”  to  Flanders  away,j* 

And  leaves  her  sad  parents  alone  in  Finae. 

Lord  Clare  on  the  field  of  Eamillies  is  charging — 

Before  him,  the  Sasanach  squadrons  enlarging — 

Behind  him  the  CravatsJ  their  sections  display — 

Beside  him  rides  Fergus  and  shouts  for  Finae. 

On  the  slopes  of  La  Judoigne  the  Frenchmen  are  flying. 

Lord  Clare  and  his  squadrons  the  foe  still  defying, 

Outnumbered,  and  wounded,  retreat  in  array ; 

And  bleeding  rides  Fergus  and  thinks  of  Finae. 

******© 

In  the  cloisters  of  Ypres  a banner  is  swaying, 

And  by  it  a pale  weeping  maiden  is  praying  ; 

That  flag’s  the  sole  trophy  of  Itamillies’  fray ; 

This  nun  is  poor  Eily,  the  Flower  of  Finae. 

* This  is  an  allusion  to  an  old  Irish  song  called  Shule  Aroon,  named  in  the  verse  above, 
belonging  to  the  period  of  which  this  ballad  treats,  in  which  occurs  this  verse : — 

“ I’ll  sell  my  rock.  I’ll  sell  my  reel, 

I’ll  sell  my  only  spinning-wheel 
To  buy  for  my  love  a sword  of  steel.” 

It  may  be  necessary  to  say  that  a rock  is  an  old-fashioned  distaff ; for  though  the  word  is 
still  to  be  found  in  our  dictionaries,  many  modern  readers  do  not  know  its  meaning. 

t The  Irish  who  expatriated  themselves  after  the  celebrated  siege  of  Limerick  were 
called  “ The  Wild  Geese they  afterwards  formed  the  famous  Irish  Brigade  in  the  service 
of  France,  and  all  recruits  raised  for  the  Brigade  in  Ireland  were,  ever  after,  familiarly 
known  by  the  name  of  “ Wild  Geese.” 

% I have  endeavoured,  but  unsuccessfully,  to  discover  the  origin  and  meaning  of  this 
sobriquet. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SORGS. 


271 


A most  plaintive  melody,  said  to  have  been  sung  by  the  women  who  wailed  and  wept  the 
departure  of  the  heroes  of  Limerick,  is  given  in  Bunting’s  “ Ancient  Music  of  Ireland,” — 
(Dublin,  1840,)  and  called  “The  Wild  Geese.”  To  that  air  Moore  wrote' his  beautiful  song 
entitled  “ The  Origin  of  the  Harp,”  beginning — 

“ ’Tis  believ’d  that  this  harp  which  I wake  now  to  thee. 

Was  a.  Syren  of  old  who  sung  under  the  sea.” 

The  song  proceeds  to  tell  how  her  love  for  a youth  was  rejected ; and,  in  pity  to  her  unre-  ‘ 
quited  passion,  a spell  was  wrought — 

“ And  chang’d  to  this  soft  harp  the  sea  maiden’s  form.” 

Moore  then  elaborates  with  great  felicity  an  idea  which  he  tells  us  he  derived  from  a design 
prefixed  to  an  ode  on  St.  Cecilia’s  day,  thus : — 

“ Still  her  bosom  rose  fair,  still  her  cheek  smil’d  the  same, 

While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  curl’d  round  the  frame, 

And  her  hair,  shedding  tear-drops  from  all  its  bright  rings 
Fell  over  her  white  arm  to  make  the  gold  strings.” 

The  Bard  then  tells  his  mistress  that  this  harp  used  to  give  forth  mingled  notes  of  love’s 
gladness  and  tones  of  sorrow,  until,  as  the  Bard  says,  with  exquisite  grace,  to  his  mistress, — 

“ Thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay 
To  be  love,  when  I’m  near  thee— and  grief  when  away.” 

It  is  not  unworthy  of  remark  that  Moore,  with  his  excessive  love  of  polish,  altered  the 
verse  I have  quoted  in  full,  in  the  last  edition  of  his  collected  works,  thus 

“Still  her  bosom  rose  fair — still  her  cheeks  smil  d the  same — 

While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  formed  the  light  frame 
And  her  hair,  as,  let  loose,  o’er  her  white  arm  it  fell, 

Was  chang’d  to  bright  chords  utt’ring  melody’s  spell.” 

Though  it  may  savour  of  presumption  to  criticise  so  polished  a versifier  as  Moore,  I can- 
not help  saying  I think  the  alteration,  with  the  exception  of  the  word  “ chang'd  ” for  curl’d, 
is  not  an  improvement.  The  image  is  more  perfectly  presented  to  the  mind  in  the  two  last 
lines  of  the  verse  as  it  originally  stood;  and  the  “ let  loose”  in  the  second  version,  implies 
intentional  disposition  of  the  hair,  far  less  pleasing  than  the  unpremeditated  grace  with 
which  it  “fell”  in  the  first  form  of  the  stanza.  Then,  “utt’ring”  is  a word  so  unmusical, 
that  one  almost  wonders  how  it  could  have  satisfied  Moore’s  delicate  ear. 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CARRICKFERGUS. 


In  the  year  1759,  France  made  great  exertions  for  the  invasion  of  the  British  dominions. 
Admiral  Thurot  was  appointed  to  command  an  expedition  from  Dunkirk.  Admiral  Conflans 
a still  larger  one  from  Brest.  Sir  Edward  Hawke  watched  Brest ; a storm  drove  him  from 
his  blockade.  Conflans  took  the  opportunity  of  sailing ; but  the  British  Admiral  caught  him 
out  at  sea,  and  defeated  him  off  Belleisle,  which  glorious  action  is  more  commonly  spoken  of 
as  “ Hawke’s  Victory.”  Dunkirk  was  watched  by  Commodore  Boys,  whom  Thurot  contrived 
to  evade.  He  sailed  with  six  ships  up  the  North  Sea,  and  went,  north  about,  to  Ireland 
severe  weather  scattered  his  ships,  and  only  three  reached  Ireland.  Thurot  entered  the  Bay 
of  Carrickfergus  and  landed;  the  garrison  of  the  castle  was  very  small,  but  fought  the 
French  with  great  gallantry.  Their  numbers  were  too  insignificant  for  lengthened  resistance, 
and,  finally,  they  surrendered.  Thurot’ s success  was  of  but  short  duration;  troops  were 
despatched  to  the  spot  with  hot  haste,  and  Thurot,  after  having  obtained  a supply  of  provi- 
sions from  Belfast,  was  obliged  to  retire.  He  sailed  south,  and  the  next  morning  an  English 
squadron,  under  Captain  Elliot,  gave  chase  to  the  French  ships,  brought  them  to  action, 
and  captured  them.  In  this  action  Thurot  fell ; and  thus  ended  the  contemplated  invasion 
of  1759. 

The  following  song  has  no  literary  merit  whatever,  but  is  a curious  specimen  of  its  class ; 
and  coming  fairly  within  the  series  of  historic  and  political  songs,  in  which  I have  endea- 
voured to  establish  a succession,  I think  it  cannot  be  considered  out  of  place,  more  particu- 
larly as  the  attack  on  Carrickfergus,  and  laying  Belfast  under  contribution,  is  alluded  to 
elsewhere,  and  a note  of  reference  to  this  very  song  appended. 

From  Dunkirk,  in  France,  in  the  month  of  September, 

Fitted  out  was  a fleet,  and  away  they  did  sail ; 

And  Monsieur  Thurot,  their  only  commander, 

With  him  at  their  head  they  were  sure  not  to  fail. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


273 


So  away  they  did  steer,  without  dread  or  fear, 

And  searched  and  plunder’d  the  coasts  all  around  ; 

Till  at  length  they  arriv’d  on  the  shore  of  old  Ireland, 

And  landed  their  men  on  our  Irish  ground. 

It  was  at  Carrickfergus,  in  the  north  of  this  kingdom, 
They  landed  their  men  and  march’d  up  to  our  walls ; 

Then  cry’d  the  undaunted,  brave  Colonel  Jennings, 

“ My  boys,  let’s  salute  them  with  powder  and  balls.” 

The  battle  began,  and  guns  they  did  rattle, 

And  bravely  we  fought  under  Jennings’  command, 

Said  he,  “ Play  away,  play  away,  my  brave  boys, 

The  beggars  the  force  of  our  fire  cannot  stand.” 

The  town  then  they  took  without  any  resistance, 

The  castle  they  thought  was  as  easy  likewise ; 

So  they  came  marching  up  in  grand  divisions, 

To  storm  it,  then  guarded  by  the  brave  Irish  boys; 

But  we  kept  constant  fire,  and  made  them  retire, 

Till  our  ammunition  entirely  was  gone ; 

Then  aloud  we  did  say,  brave  boys  let’s  away, 

And  sally  out  on  them  with  sword  in  hand. 

But  says  our  brave  colonel,  “ We  cannot  defend  it, 

For  to  make  a sally  it  is  but  in  vain, 

As  our  ammunition,  you  see  is  expended ; 

We’ll  therefore  submit,  and  good  terms  will  obtain, 

For  plainly  you  see,  that  to  one  they  are  three, 

’Tis  best  then  in  time  for  to  capitulate  ; 

For  if  they  take  it  by  storm,  by  the  law  of  arms, 

Then  death  without  mercy  will  sure  be  our  fate.” 

Then  these  beggars  obtained  possession  of  Carrick, 

Where  they  re  veil’d  and  sotted,  and  drank  all  the  while, 

Poor  people  they  did  sorely  ransack  and  plunder, 

And  hoisted  it  all  on  board  the  Belleisle ; 

But  Elliott  soon  met  them,  nor  away  did  he  let  them, 

But  forc’d  them  to  yield  up  their  ill-gotten  store  ; 

Now,  Monsieurs,  lament  in  the  deepest  contrition, 

For  now  you  can  brag  of  your  Thurot  no  more. 

Let’s -exalt  the  brave  Elliott,  who  gained  this  action, 

And  sing  to  his  praise  in  the  joy  fullest  song  ; 

For  we  of  our  foes  have  got  satisfaction, 

And  Thurot  lies  rotting  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Their  general  is  wounded,  his  schemes  are  confounded, 

The  brave  British  tars  they  can  never  withstand ; 

The  fire  of  the  fierce  and  the  bold  British  lions 
Appear’d  in  the  men  under  brave  Captain  Bland. 

18* 


274  HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 

But  now  to  "bring  my  story  to  a conclusion, 

Let’s  drink  a good  health  to  our  officers  all ; 

First  brave  Colonel  Jennings,  likewise  Bland  our  captain, 
Yet  never  forgetting  the  brave  Mr.  Hall. 

Let’s  drink  and  be  jolly,  and  drown  melancholy, 

So  merrily  let  us  rejoice  too,  and  sing  ; 

So  fill  up  your  bowls,  all  ye  loyal  souls, 

And  toast  a good  health  to  great  George  our  king. 


From  a medal  by  Mossop,  of  Dublin. 


A noble  statue  of  Grattan,  by  Chantrey,  stands  in  the  Royal  Exchange  of  Dublin,  with 
this  suitable  inscription  on  the  pedestal — 

Filio 

Optimo  Carissimo 
Henrico  Grattan 
Patria 
non  ingrata 
1829. 

THE  MAY  YHIO  LED  THE  YAY  OF  IRISH  YOLUYTEERS. 

Edward  Lysaght. 

Air,  “ The  British  Grenadiers.” 

The  man  thus  celebrated  was  Henry  Grattan;  the  most  illustrious  of  Irish  patriots. 
The  Irish  Volunteers  had  existed,  but  ip.  separate  corps,  until  1780,  when  a#  increase  and 


niSTOHICA.L  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


27o 

general  organisation  of  that  force  took  place.  The  military  establishments  had  been  so 
drained  to  recruit  the  regiments  in  America,  that  there  were  not  sufficient  left  in  the  kingdom 
to  defend  the  seaports  from  attack ; and  when  the  town  of  Belfast,  which  had  been  closely 
visited  eighteen  years  before  by  invasion,  applied  to  Government  for  support  against  the 
common  enemy  that  threatened  to  invade  them  again.  Government  could  not  grant  it ; and 
in  that  state  of  things  the  expansion  of  the  volunteer  institution  was  looked  upon  as  the 
best  national  safeguard,  and  with  marvellous  rapidity  men  of  all  conditions  and  opinions 
enrolled  themselves  in  these  patriot  ranks,  clothing  and  arming  themselves  at  their  own 
expense.  Henry  Grattan’s  eloquence  in  the  senate  increased  the  national  enthusiasm  of 
the  volunteers,  who  looked  upon  Grattan  with  a passionate  admiration.  Sometime  before, 
his  indomitable  energy  in  Parliament  had  obtained  freedom  of  commerce  for  his  country, 
and  now  he  sought  by  the  force  of  his  argument  and  the  ardour  of  his  eloquence  to  rouse 
the  Parliament  of  Ireland  to  assert  its  independence,  which  it  did  in  the  year  1782,  as  noticed 
under  the  song  of  “ Our  Island,”  and  obtained  the  repeal  of  the  objectionable  act  of  the 
English  Parliament,  6th  Geo.  I. 

Much  as  may  be  granted  to  the  powers  of  eloquence,  it  is  too  much  to  suppose  that  such  a 
triumph  could  have  been  obtained  by  mere  oratory.  Grattan  had  80,000  volunteers  of  the 
same  opinion  as  himself,  not  an  insurrectionary  band,  but  a legalised  association  of  armed 
gentlemen,  who  had  been  loyally  protecting  their  country  from  foreign  invasion  for  years, 
and  now  determined  to  obtain  domestic  independence ; to  use  Mr.  Grattan’s  own  words, 
“ It  seemed  as  if  the  subjects  of  Ireland  had  met  at  the  altar,  and  communicated  a national 
sacrament.  Juries,  cities,  counties,  commoners,  nobles,  volunteers,  gradations,  religions, 
a solid  league,  a rapid  fire.”  That  it  was  thus  looked  upon  by  the  Government  of  the  day 
is  proved  by  the  address  made  to  Grattan  by  Mr.  J.  H.  Hutchinson,  his  Majesty’s  principal 
Secretary  of  State,  when  he  was  charged  with  communicating  a message  to  the  House  of 
Commons  from  the  Lord  Lieutenant,  by  command  of  his  Majesty,  as  preliminary  to 
assenting  to  their  claim.  On  that  occasion  Mr.  Hutchinson  said,  “ Not  only  the  present  age, 
but  posterity  would  be  indebted  to  Mr.  Grattan  for  the  greatest  of  all  obligations,  and 
would,  but  he  hoped  at  a great  distance  of  time,  inscribe  on  his  tomb,  that  he  had  redeemed 
the  liberties  of  his  country'' 

When  a Secretary  of  State  thus  spoke  of  that  memorable  event,  it  is  quite  clear  that  it 
could  not  be  tainted  with  the  smallest  particle  of  what  a people  should  not  ask,  nor  a 
Sovereign  grant.  Moore  speaks  of  this  era  in  the  history  of  Ireland,  as  possessing  “a 
character  of  grandeur,  as  passing  as  it  was  bright,  but  which  will  be  long  remembered  with 
melancholy  pride  by  hei  .sons,  and  as  long  recall  the  memory  of  that  admirable  man  to 
whose  patriotism  she  owed  her  brief  day  of  freedom,  and  upon  whose  name  that  momentary 
sunshine  of  her  sad  history  rests.”  He  pays  a tribute  also  to  the  memory  of  Charles 
James  Fox,  in  thus  alluding  to  “the  frank  and  cordial  understanding  entered  into  with 
Ireland,  which  identifies  the  memory  of  Mr.  Fox  and  this  Ministry*  with  the  only  oasis  in 
the  desert  of  Irish  history.” — Moore’s  Life  of  Sheridan,  8vo,  pp.  359  to  375. 

TnE  gen’rous  sons  of  Erin,  in  manly  virtue  told, 

With  hearts  and  hands  preparing  our  country  to  uphold, 

Tho’  cruel  knaves  and  bigot  slaves  disturbed  our  isle  some  years, 
Now  hail  the  man,  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Yolunteers. 


* The  Rockingham  Ministry. 


276 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


Just  thirty  years  are  ending,*  since  first  his  glorious  aid, 

Our  sacred  rights  defending,  struck  shackles  from  our  trade  ; 

To  serve  us  still,  with  might  and  skill,  the  vet’ ran  now  appears, 

That  gallant  man,  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volunteers. 

He  sows  no  vile  dissensions  ; good  will  to  all  he  hears ; 

He  knows  no  vain  pretensions,  no  paltry  fears  or  cares  ; 

To  Erin’s  and  to  Britain’s  sons,  his  worth  his  name  endears  ; 

They  love  the  man,  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volunteers. 

Oppos’d  by  hirelings  sordid,  he  broke  oppression’s  chain , 

On  statute-books  recorded,  his  patriot  acts  remain  ; 

The  equipoise  his  mind  employs  of  Commons,  King,  and  Peers, 

The  upright  man,  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volunteers. 

A British  constitution,  (to  Erin  ever  true,) 

In  spite  of  State  pollution,  he  gained  in  “ Eighty- tic o ; ” 
u He  watched  it  in  its  cradle , and  bedew'd  its  hearse  ivith  tears ,”f 
This  gallant  man,  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volunteers. 

While  other  nations  tremble,  by  proud  oppressors  gall’d, 

On  hustings^  we’ll  assemble,  by  Erin’s  welfare  call’d  ; 

Our  Grattan,  there  we’ll  meet  him,  and  greet  him  with  three  cheers; 
The  gallant  man,  who  led  the  van  of  Irish  Volunteers. 

* This  would  make  the  date  of  the  song  somewhere  about  1809. 

t Mr.  Grattan’s  feeling  and  impressive  words  were  these — “ I watched  by  the  cradle  of 
Irish  Independence,  and  I followed  its  hearse.” 
t This  shows  it  to  be  an  electioneering  song,  and  for  such  an  occasion,  far  above  tko 
ordinary  mark* 


THE  SHAH  VAN  VOGH.§ 

1796. 

On!  the  French  are  on  the  sea,|{ 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 

The  French  are  on  the  sea, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh ; 

§ Properly  spelt,  An  t-sean  lihean  bhochd,  meaning,  the  Poor  Old  Woman — another  name 
for  Ireland. 

||  An  expedition  sailed  from  France,  1796.  It  was  scattered  by  a storm,  a few  ships  only 
reached  Ireland,  and  the  force  they  carried  was  not  sufficient  to  risk  a landing.  A copious 
note  relating  to  this  and  other  such  expeditions,  will  be  found  under  the  song  “ Up  for  the 
Green.” 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


277 


Oh ! the  French  are  in  the  Bay,* 

They’ll  be  here  without  delay, 

And  the  Orange  will  decay, 

Says  the  Shan  Tan  Yogh. 

Oh!  the  French  are  in  the  Bay. 

They  ’ll  he  here  by  break  of  day, 

And  the  Orange  will  decay, 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh. 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh ; 

"Where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Y ogh ; 

On  the  Curragh  of  Kildare,  f 
The  boys  % they  will  be  there 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh. 

To  the  Curragh  of  Kildare 
The  boys  they  will  repair, 

And  Lord  Edward  § will  be  there, 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh. 

Then  what  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh  ; 

What  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh  ; 

What  should  the  yeomen  do, 

But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 

And  swear  that  they’ll  be  true 
To  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh  ? 

What  should,  &c. 

And  what  colour  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh ; 

What  colour  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yogh  ; 

* Pantry. 

t A noble  plain  in  the  county  of  that  name,  often  used  for  encampment.  A famous 
race-course  is  also  there. 

% A familiar  name  for  the  rebels.  In  the  following  line  there  is  something  comically 
expressive  in  talking  of  their  pikes  being  “in  good  repair,”  as  if  a pike  was  a sort  of  thing 
in  Ireland  one  should  always  have  ready  for  use. 

§ Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald — a worthy  descendant  of  the  illustrious  Geraldines.  The 
Geraldines  always  espoused  the  cause  of  Ireland,  the  country  of  their  adoption ; fulfilling 
the  truth  of  the  accusation  made,  of  old,  by  England,  against  settlers  in  Ireland— “That  they 
became  more  Irish  than  the  Irish  themselves.”  See  "History  of  England”  for  the  Earl  of 
Ivlidare  and  Henry  VII.  See  also,  “The  Chain  of  Gold,”  in  this  collection,  p.  243. 


278 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


What  colour  should  he  seen 
Where  our  Fathers’  homes  have  been5 
But  their  own  immortal  Green  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

What  colour ; &c. 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh  ; 

Will  Ireland  then  he  free  ? 

Says  the  t h m Van  Vo ; 

Yes ! Ireland  shall  he  free, 

From  the  centre  to  the  sea ; 

Then  hurra  for  Liberty  ! 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

Yes!  Ireland,  &o. 

There  are  many  versions  of  this  song,  which  has  always  been  a favourite  with  the  people 
at  all  times  of  political  excitement,  either  varied  or  rewritten,  according  to  circumstances. 
At  the  time  of  the  celebrated  Clare  election,  carried  by  Daniel  O’Connell  while  the  "Catholic 
Emancipation”  cause  was  yet  pending,  I remember  two  verses  of  a street  ballad  in  Dublin 
running  thus: — 

"Into  Parliament  you’ll  go,  (meaning  O’Connell,)  says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh, 
To  extricate  our  woe,  says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 

Our  foes  you  will  amaze, 

And  all  Europe  you  will  plaze ; 

And  ould  Ireland’s  now  at  aise,  . 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

"Our  worthy  brave  O’Connell,  says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh, 

To  have  you  in  we’re  longing,  says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 

Sure  you  we  well  have  tried, 

And  you’re  always  at  our  side, 

And  you  never  took  a bribe. 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh.” 

During  the  “ Repeal  ” movement  (about  1840)  the  original  song  was  revived,  with  the 
exception  of  the  first  verse,  and  the  name  of  O’Connell  substituted  for  that  of  Lord  Edward 


SHAN  VAN  VOUGH. 

A Street  Ballad. 

I have  said,  in  the  notes  to  the  foregoing  song  of  the  same  title,  composed  in  1796,  that 
it  was  a favourite  form  of  expressing  popular  opinion  at  all  times  of  political  excitement. 
The  following  version  I remember  hearing  sung  in  the  streets  of  Dublin,  soon  after  a 
debate  in  the  House  of  Lords  on  some  Irish  question. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


279 


Oh,  I’m  told  that  Anglesea,* 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough; 

Oh,  I’m  told  that  Anglesea, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough ; 

Oh,  I’m  told  that  Anglesea, 

In  the  House  of  Lords  one  day, 

Said  the  Papists  he  would  slay, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough. 

But  faith,  at  'Waterloo, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough  ; 

But  faith,  at  Waterloo, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough ; 

But  faith,  at  Waterloo, 

He’d  have  looked  very  blue, 

Hadn’t  Paddy  been  there  too,f 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough. 

Yet,  if  he  needs  must  fight, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough  ; 

Yet,  if  he  needs  must  fight, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough  ; 

Yet,  if  he  needs  must  fight, 

Oh,  he’s  always  in  the  right 
To  keep  Erin  in  his  sight, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough. 

For  Pat  is  fond  of  fun, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough  ; 

For  Pat  is  fond  of  fun, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough  ; 

F or  Pat  is  fond  of  fun, 

And  was  never  known  to  run 
From  cannon,  sword,  or  gun, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough. 

And  though  Rock,J  alas,  is  gone, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vough ; 

And  though  Bock,  alas,  is  gone, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  V ough  ; 

* The  Marquis  of  Anglesea.  Pronounced  by  the  ballad-singers  Ang-gla-say. 

t This  was  suggested  by  a passage  in  a speech  of  Daniel  O’Connell’s  at  that  time, 
wherein  he  said  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  kept  all  his  objections  against  the  Irish  for 
his  place  in  Parliament ; but  that  he  had  no  objection  to  them  on  the  field  of  Waterloo. 

X Captain  Rock.  The  supposititious  leader  of  insurrectionary  movements.  His  memoirs 
by  Moore,  are  well  worth  reading  by  any  one  who  wishes  to  be  briefly  acquainted  with 
the  political  disturbances  of  Ireland  from  the  earliest  times  down  to  1824. 


280 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS, 


And  though  Rock,  alas,  is  gone, 

I’ll  hold  you  ten  to  one 
He’d  he  with  us  here  anon, 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Tough. 

But  no  Hussar*  we’ll  see, 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yough  ; 

But  no  Hussar  we’ll  see, 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yough  ; 

But  no  Hussar  we’ll  see, 

For  old  Erin  shall  he  free, 

An  “ So  help  me  God”  says  she, 

The  Shan  Yan  Yough. 

* The  Marquis  of  Anglesea,  it  may  be  remembered,  was  famous  as  an  Hussar  officer  j 
or,  I should  rather  say,  it  can  never  be  forgotten. 

Strange  enough,  it  was  the  Duke  of  Wellington  who,  after  making  many  strong  speeches 
against  “ Catholic  Emancipation,”  introduced  and  carried  that  measure.  And  the  Marquis  of 
Anglesea  was,  after  the  period  when  the  above  ballad  was  sung,  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland — 
and  one  of  the  most  popular  who  ever  held  that  place;— so  popular  indeed,  that  he  was  recalled, 
and  his  farewell  procession  from  Dublin  to  his  place  of  embarkation  at  Kingstown  was  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  public  exhibitions  of  affectionate  demonstration  I ever  witnessed. 
He  passed  through  hundreds  of  thousands,  who  blessed  him  as  he  passed,  but  to  see  fresh 
hundreds  of  thousands  covering  the  ample  shores  of  the  harbour;  and  at  the  final  moment 
of  departure  the  deep  emotion  of  the  gallant  veteran  could  not  be  concealed : the  scene 
was  equally  honourable  to  the  feelings  of  the  Governor  and  the  people  he  had  governed. 
Such  events  are  proofs  of  what  extraordinary  changes  may  take  place  in  opinion. 

o 

UP  FOR  THE  GREEN! 

A song  of  the  United  Irishmen,  1 796.  Air,  “ Wearing  of  the  Green.” 

’Tis  the  green — oh,  the  green  is  the  colour  of  the  true, 

And  we’ll  hack  it  ’gainst  the  orange,  and  we’ll  raise  it  o’er  the  blue ! 
For  the  colour  of  old  Ireland  alone  should  here  he  seen — 

’Tis  the  colour  of  the  martyr’d  dead — our  own  immortal  green. 

Then  up  for  the  green,  boys,  and  up  for  the  green ! 

Oh,  ’tis  down  to  the  dust,  and  a shame  to  he  seen ; 

But  we’ve  hands — oh,  we’ve  hands,  hoys,  full  strong  enough,  I 
ween, 

To  rescue  and  to  raise  again  our  own  immortal  green ! 

They  may  say  they  have  power  ’tis  vain  to  oppose — 

’Tis  better  to  obey  and  live,  than  surely  die  as  foes ; 

But  we  scorn  all  their  threats,  boys,  whatever  they  may  mean  ; 

For  we  trust  in  God  above  us,  and  we  dearly  love  the  green. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


281 


So,  we’ll  up  for  tlie  green,  and  we’ll  up  for  tlie  green ! 

Oh,  to  die  is  far  better  than  be  curst  as  we  have  been ; 

And  we’ve  hearts — oh,  we’ve  hearts,  hoys,  full  true  enough,  I 
ween, 

To  rescue  and  to  raise  again  our  own  immortal  green ! 

They  may  swear,  as  they  often  did,  our  wretchedness  to  cure ; 

But  we’ll  never  trust  John  Bull  again,  nor  let  his  lies  allure. 

No,  we  won’t — no,  we  won’t,  Bull,  for  now  nor  ever  more  ! 

For  we’ve  hopes  on  the  ocean,*  and  we’ve  trust  on  the  shore. 

Then  up  for  the  green,  hoys,  and  up  for  the  green ! 

Shout  it  back  to  the  Sasanach,  uWe’ll  never  sell  the  green  !” 

For  our  Tone  f is  coming  back,  and  with  men  enough,  I ween, 

To  rescue,  and  avenge  us  and  our  own  immortal  green 

Oh,  remember  the  days  when  their  reign  we  did  disturb, 

At  Limerick  and  Thurles,  Blackwater  and  Benburb  : 

And  ask  this  proud  Saxon  if  our  blows  he  did  enjoy. 

When  we  met  him  on  the  battle-field  of  France — at  Fontenoy. 

Then  we’ll  up  for  the  green,  boys,  and  up  for  the  green  ! 

Oh,  ’tis  still  in  the  dust,  and  a shame  to  be  seen ; 

But  we’ve  hearts  and  we’ve  hands,  boys,  full  strong  enough,  I 
ween, 

To  rescue  and  to  raise  again  our  own  unsullied  green ! 

* Alluding  to  the  expected  succour  from  France. 

f Theobald  Wolfe  Tone,  one  of  the  most  active  of  the  United  Irishmen.  He  presented 
himself  to  the  Directory  of  the  French  Republic,  as  the  accredited  agent  of  his  party,  and 
it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  in  the  course  of  his  negociations  he  had  one  interview  with 
Napoleon  Bonaparte.  After  much  labour  and  many  disappointments  he  obtained,  in  1796, 
the  aid  he  sought  for.  He  was  made  Chef  de  Brigade,  and  placed  on  the  staff  of  General 
Hoche,  to  whom  the  command  of  the  expedition  to  Ireland  was  entrusted.  It  was  one  of 
great  importance ; the  fleet  consisted  of  forty-three  sail,  seventeen  being  of  the  line,  car- 
rying some  fifteen  thousand  French  troops,  with  ample  supply  of  warlike  stores,  and  forty- 
five  thousand  stand  of  arms  for  distribution  among  the  disaffected  in  Ireland.  That 
expedition  was  scattered  by  a storm a few  ships  anchored  in  Bantry  Bay,  and  remained 
for  some  days ; but  the  admiral,  chief  in  command,  never  reached  an  anchorage — neither 
did  Hoche,  the  general  in  chief,  and  the  expedition  proved  utterly  abortive.  Many 
of  the  ships  were  wrecked,  some  were  taken  by  the  British  cruisers,  and  the  remainder 
returned  to  Brest  in  a very  shattered  condition.  Tone,  though  thus  baffled  for  the 
moment,  persevered  in  soliciting  foreign  aid;  and  a new  and  equally  formidable  expedition 
was  ordered  to  attempt  a descent  upon  Ireland  from  the  Batavian  Republic,  in  the  fol- 
lowing year,  and  again  under  Hoche’s  command.  That  expedition  was  detained  for  six 
weeks  by  contrary  winds  in  the  Texel,  and  the  stores  being  consumed,  the  army  of  invasion 
was  debarked.  During  that  time  of  detention  the  memorable  mutiny  in  the  British  fleet, 
at  the  Nore,  took  place,  paralysing,  for  the  time,  the  naval  power  of  England,  and  leaving 
her  fearfully  exposed  to  the  intended  attack.  The  mutiny  was  suppressed  before  the  Texel 


282 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


fleet,  under  Admiral  De  Winter,  could  put  to  sea,  and  gave  Admiral  Duncan  the  oppor- 
tunity of  meeting  it  at  Camperdown,  and  obtaining  his  famous  victory  of  the  11th  of 
October,  1797 ; a conquest  which  seriously  crippled  the  naval  power  of  the  confederated 
Republics  of  France  and  Batavia,  and  placed  a coronet  on  the  head  of  the  victorious 
admiral.  The  indefatigable  Tone  still  urged  the  French  to  make  a descent  upon  Ireland, 
and  a third  expedition  was  undertaken,  in  August  179S,  under  the  command  of  General 
Humbert,  which  landed  at  Killala,  but  too  small  to  be  influential,  unsupported  as  it  then 
was;  and  Humbert,  after  some  partial  successes,  surrendered.  The  intended  support, 
under  the  command  of  General  Hardy  and  Commodore  Bompart,  sailed  from  Brest  in 
September,  and  appeared  off  the  coast  of  Donegal  in  October;  but  a British  fleet,  under  the 
command  of  Captain  Sir  John  Borlaze  Warren,  had  watched  this  hostile  movement,  and 
a general  action  resulted  in  the  defeat  of  the  enemy.  Tone  was  in  the  French  com- 
modore’s ship  (The  Hoche),  and  it  is  stated  that  he  displayed  great  gallantry  throughout 
the  action,  but  death  in  hot  blood  was  not  to  be  his  fate.  On  the  arrival  of  the  captured 
ship  in  Lough  Swilly  he  was  recognised,  transmitted  to  Dublin,  tried  by  court  martial,  and 
condemned  to  death.  He  appeared  on  his  trial  in  a French  uniform,  and  as  an  officer  in 
the  French  service  requested  to  be  shot.  This  was  refused,  and  to  avoid  the  ignominy  of 
the  scaffold,  he  laid  violent  hands  on  himself  the  evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  his 
execution. 

The  air  to  which  the  foregoing  song  was  sung  is  very  sweet  and  plaintive,  as  well  as  the 
ballad  entitled  “ For  the  wearing  of  the  Green,"  setting  forth  the  sufferings  of  the 
adherents  of  that  colour;  there  was  another,  entitled  “For  the  Green  on  the  Cape,”  which 
I myself  remember  to  have  heard  when  a child  from  the  lips  of  the  street  ballad-singer, 
and  at  a time,  too,  when  it  was  anything  but  safe  to  sing  it.  In  that  ballad  a conversation 
was  supposed  to  take  place  between  Bonaparte  and  an  Irishman,  and  Bonaparte  inquires — 
“And  how  is  ould  Ireland,  and  how  docs  she  stand?  ” 

To  which  the  reply  follows — 

“ ’Tis  a poor  distressed  coun-the-ry,  oh,  poor  I-ar-land.” 

The  refrain  being, 

*•  For  the  green  on  the  cape,  for  the  green  on  the  cape, 

’Tis  a poor  distressed  country  for  the  green  on  the  cape.’* 

This  hope  in  Bonaparte  was  a very  false  one,  for  Tone,  in  his  memoirs,  says  that  when 
he  urged  on  Napoleon  the  striking  at  England  through  this  vulnerable  point,  the  sugges- 
tion was  met  with  coldness,  and  the  selfish  remark,  that  Ireland  had  already  proved 
enough  for  all  that  the  French  Directory  wanted,  in  having  been  a useful  diversion  in  their 
favour.  From  this,  and  certain  observations  in  Bourienne’s  Memoirs  of  the  Emperor,  it 
seems  questionable  if  ever  he  seriously  contemplated  the  invasion  of  England,  and  pro- 
bable, that  even  all  his  overt  preparations  at  Boulogne  were  only  diversions  to  cover  other 
movements. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


283 


WHEN  ERIN  FIRST  ROSE. 

This  is  so  remarkable  a song  that  I hope  an  editor  may  be  pardoned  for  taking  more 
than  ordinary  notice  of  it.  Moore  calls  it  “that  beautiful  but  rebellious  song;”  but  as  Dr. 
Drennan  wrote  at  a period  when  party  passion  was  at  boiling-heat,  we  cannot  wonder  at 
the  intensity  of  his  political  feelings,  and  the  uncompromising  vigour  with  which  they  are 
expressed.  His  taste,  however,  was  too  good  to  permit  him  to  indulge  in  any  revolting 
terms  of  antagonism,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  for  much  of  the  writing  of  that  day. 
In  the  following  poem  the  feelings  of  an  unflinching  patriot  of  the  period  are  eloquently 
poured  forth,  and  no  one,  I think,  can  deny  much  poetic  power  and  artistic  accomplishment 
in  these  lines : forcible  imagery,  and  antithetic  point,  are  given  in  flowing  verse  and  good 
language.  Some  exception  may  be  critically  made  to  these  qualities,  as,  here  and  there, 
they  are  open  to  the  charge  of  carelessness  and  magniloquence ; but  we  must,  remember 
that  bombast  was  the  vice  of  his  day,  and  the  very  nature  of  the  poem  excuses,  if  it  cannot 
justify,  exuberance  of  expression.  The  similes  are  not  always  quite  perfect,  and  the  poem  is 
not  quite  equal  throughout ; for  in  the  last  verse,  where  the  poet  should  rise,  he  decidedly 
sinks.  But  greater  men  than  Doctor  Drennan  have  made  the  same  mistake : many  think 
Campbell’s  “ Battle  of  the  Baltic”  would  have  been  better  without  the  last  verse.  Take  it 
for  all  in  all,  however,  the  ode  is  worthy  of  admiration,  and  suggests  proof  to  a thinking 
reader  of  these  days  (when  we  may  calmly  consider  events  more  than  half  a century  past) 
that  the  disaffection  existing  in  Ireland  at  that  time  did  not,  as  it  has  sometimes  been  mis- 
represented, exist  principally  among  the  lower  and  ignorant  classes.  Such  lines  as  these 
could  never  have  been  inspired  in  the  back  lanes  of  low-lived  conspiracy;  they  bear  internal 
evidence  of  being  the  work  of  a gentleman : moreover,  it  appears  to  me  the  whole  heart  of  a 
nation  must  have  been  roused  before  such  lines  could  have  been  written ; they  are  rather  the 
effect  than  the  cause  of  commotion : — the  fringe  of  foam  on  the  dark  rush  of  the  torrent. 

W hen  Erin  first  rose  from  the  dark  swelling  flood, 

God  bless’ d the  green  island,  and  saw  it  was  good; 

The  em’rald  of  Europe,  it  sparkled  and  shone, 

In  the  ring  of  the  world,  the  most  precious  stone  ; 

In  her  sun,  in  her  soil,  in  her  station  thrice  blest, 

With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to  the  West, 

Erin  stands  proudly  insular,  on  her  steep  shore, 

And  strikes  her  high  harp  ’mid  the  ocean’s  deep  roar. 

But  when  its  soft  tones  seem  to  mourn  and  to  weep, 

The  dark  chain  of  silence*  is  thrown  o’er  the  deep  ; 

* Dr.  Drennan,  here,  anticipates  Moore  in  his  allusion  to  an  old  bardic  custom.  Walker 
tells  us  of  the  assembled  bards,  on  a certain  occasion,  resorting  to  this  custom  to  repress  a 
military  commotion.  “To  effect  this,  they  shook  the  chain  of  silence , and  flung  themselves 
into  the  ranks,  extolling  the  sweets  of  peace,”  &c.  Moore  pleasantly  calls  this  shaking  of 
the  chain  of  silence  “a  practical  figure  gf  rhetoric.”  But  how  beautifully  Moore  has 
adopted  this  image  in  his  farewell  to  the  harp,  in  the  well  known  lines — 

“ Dear  Harp  of  my  Country  ! in  darkness  I found  thee. 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o’er  thee  long ; 

When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp ! I unbound  thee. 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song ! ” 

As  George  Withers  improved  on  an  idea  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  alluded  to  in  another  part  of 
this  volume,  so  Moore  transcended  his  antecessor. 


284 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


At  the  thought  of  the  past  the  tears  gush  from  her  eyes, 
And  the  pulse  of  her  heart  makes  her  white  bosom  rise. 

0 ! sons  of  green  Erin,  lament  o’er  the  time, 

When  religion  was  war,  and  our  country  a crime — 

When  man  in  God’s  image,  inverted  his  plan, 

And  moulded  his  God  in  the  image  of  man. 

When  the  int’rest  of  state  wrought  thtf  general  woe, 

The  stranger  a friend,  and  the  native  a foe  ; 

While  the  mother  rejoic’d  o’er  her  children  oppressed, 

And  clasp’d  the  invader  more  close  to  her  breast. 

When  with  pale  for  the  body  and  pale  for  the  soul, 

Church  and  State  joined  in  compact  to  conquer  the  whole ; 
And  as  Shannon  was  stained  with  Milesian  blood, 

Ey’d  each  other  askance  and  pronounced  it  was  good. 

By  the  groans  that  ascend  from  your  forefathers’  grave, 

E or  their  country  thus  left  to  the  brute  and  the  slave, 
Drive  the  demon  of  bigotry  home  to  his  den, 

And  where  Britain  made  brutes  now  let  Erin  make  men. 
Let  my  sons  like  the  leaves  of  the  shamrock  unite, 

A partition  of  sects  from  one  footstalk  of  right, 

Give  each  his  full  share  of  the  earth  and  the  sky, 

Nor  fatten  the  slave  where  the  serpent  would  die.* 

Alas ! for  poor  Erin  that  some  are  still  seen, 

Who  would  dye  the  grass  red  from  their  hatred  to  Green  ;f 
Yet,  oh ! when  you’re  up  and  they’re  down,  let  them  live, 
Then  yield  them  that  mercy  which  they  would  not  give. 
Arm  of  Erm  be  strong ! but  be  gentle  as  brave  ! 

And  uplifted  to  strike,  be  still  ready  to  save  ! 

Let  no  feeling  of  vengeance  presume  to  defile 
The  cause  of,  or  men  of,  the  Emerald  Isle 


The  cause  it  is  good,  and  the  men  they  are  true, 

And  the  green  shall  outlive  both  the  Orange  and  Blue ! 
And  the  triumphs  of  Erin  her  daughters  shall  share, 
With  the  full  swelling  chest,  and  the  fair  flowing  hair, 
Their  bosoms  heave  high  for  the  worthy  and  brave, 

But  no  coward  shall  rest  in  that  soft-swelling  wave ; 
Men  of  Erin ! awake  ! and  make  haste  to  be  blest, 
liise — Arch  of  the  Ocean,  and  Queen  of  the  West. 


* In  allusion  to  the  Irish  soil  not  harbouring  any  venomous  reptile. 

t How  forcible  is  this  image ; — a hatred  so  intense  that  it  would  alter  even  the  works  of 
God  by  dyeing  the  grass.  And  what  colour  ?— Bed:-1 >how  fearfully  suggestive. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


285 


Having  ventured  to  speak  of  these  verses  so  critically,  I wish  to  support  my  opinion  by 
referring  to  the  text.  It  will  be  observed  that  the  author  is  fond  of  indulging  in  epithet, 
as,  “steep  shore”— “high  harp” — “deep  roar;”  and  often  double  epithet,  as,  “dark- 
swelling”— “full-swelling” — “soft-swelling” — “fair-swelling” — tending  somewhat  to  tur- 
gidity.  In  the  fourth  and  sixth  lines  the  metre  is  defective ; a little  care  would  have  made 
the  sixth  smooth,  and  the  sentiment  even  more  bitter.  The  original  stands  thus — 

“With  her  back  towards  Britain,  her  face  to  the  West;” 

“with,”  being  expletive  and  inelegant ; “towards,”  false  in  metre  unless  mispronounced.  I 
think  the  line  stands  better  thus — 

Her  back  turn’d  to  Britain,— her  face  to  the  West. 

The  metre  perfect;  composition  more  compact;  and  turning  the  back,  increasing  the 
expression  of  dislike. 

The  four  last  lines  of  the  second  verse,  and  the  entire  of  the  third  and  fourth,  are  rich  in 
antithesis,  powerful  in  expression,  and  faultless  in  versification,  with  the  one  exception  of 
an  affected  pronunciation  of  “ Milesian.” 

The  last  verse  is,  unfortunately,  the  weakest;  and  the  image  “soft-swelling  wave,” 
forced; — a bosom  cannot  be  called  a wave,  and  the  homely  phrase  “make  haste”  is 
infelicitous  at  the  end  of  so  lofty  a strain.  But  whatever  its  faults  may  be,  this  ode  may 
be  ranked  among  the  highest  examples  of  patriotic  exhortation  and  political  invective. 


-O 


OUR  ISLAND  I 

Edward  Lysaght.  Bom,  17C3. 

Air,  “ The  Rogue’s  March.” 

Edward  Lysaght  was  a gentleman  of  the  county  of  Clare,  whose  convivial  nature  won 
for  him  the  sobriquet  of  “ Pleasant  Ned.”  He  passed  through  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
with  credit.  He  was  a fluent  song  writer.  Some  of  his  lighter  pieces  are  graceful,  and 
indicate  a nice  ear  for  euphony,  ( vide  “Kate  of  Garnavilla,”  in  this  volume,)  but  his 
patriotic  songs  are,  perhaps,  his  best;  he  does  the  light  cavalry  business  of  political 
warfare  with  much  spirit,  cutting  and  giving  point  as  he  dashes  along. 

Mat  Grod,  in  whose  hand 
Is  the  lot  of  each  land — - 

Who  rules  over  ocean  and  dry  land— 

Inspire  our  good  king 
From  his  presence  to  fling 

111  advisers  who’d  ruin  our  island. 


286 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


Don’t  we  feel  ’tis  onr  dear  native  island ! 

A fertile  and  fine  little  island  ! 

May  Orange  and  Green* 

No  longer  be  seen 

Bestain’d  with  the  blood  of  our  island. 

The  fair  ones  we  prize 
Declare  they  despise 

Those  who’d  make  it  a slavish  and  vile  land ; 
Be  their  smiles  our  reward, 

And  we’ll  gallantly  guard 

All  the  rights  and  delights  of  our  island — 
For,  oh!  ’tis  a lovely  green  island! 

Bright  beauties  adorn  our  deai  island ! 

At  St.  Patrick’s  command 
Vipers  quitted  our  land — 

But  he’s  wanted  again  in  our  island ! 

For  her  interest  and  pride, 

We  oft  fought  by  the  side 

Of  England,  that  haughty  and  high  land  ; 
Nay,  we’d  do  so  again, 

If  she’d  let  us  remain 

A free  and  a flourishing  island — 


* Orange  and  green  are  the  distinctive  and  antagonistic  colours  of  the  two  great  parties 
so  long  dividing  Ireland  but,  as  orange  and  green  are  harmonious  in  the  artistic  arrange- 
ment of  colour,  let  us  hope  that  a similar  result  may  take  place  in  political  chromatics, 
and  that  neither  of  the  parties  will  continue  to  grind  their  colours  with  such  intensify 


as  formerly the  occasional  mixture  of  a little  more  oil  would  make  them  work  more 
smoothly  j and,  apropos — the  olive,  that  emblem  of  peace,  has  good  oleaginous  qualities. 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


23  7 


But  she,  like  a crafty  and  sly  land, 

Dissension  excites  in  our  island, 

And,  our  feuds  to  adjust, 

She  would  lay  in  the  dust 
All  the  freedom  and  strength  of  our  island. 

A few  years  ago — 

Though  now  she  says  no — 

We  agreed  with  that  surly  and  sly  land, 

That  each,  as  a friend, 

Should  the  other  defend, 

And  the  Crown  he  the  link  of  each  island! 

’Twas  the  final  state-bond  of  each  island ; 

Independence  we  swore  to  each  island,  f 
Are  we  grown  so  absurd 
As  to  credit  her  word, 

When  she’s  breaking  her  oath  with  our  island  ? 

Let  us  steadily  stand 
By  our  king  and  our  land, 

And  it  shan’t  be  a slavish  or  vile  land ; 

„ Nor  impudent  Pitt 
Unpunished  commit 

An  attempt  on  the  rights  of  our  island. 

Each  voice  should  resound  through  our  island — 

You’re  my  neighbour,  but,  Bull,  this  is  my  land  ! J 
Nature’s  favourite  spot — 

And  I’d  sooner  be  shot 
Than  surrender  the  rights  of  our  island ! 

t This  alludes  to  the  celebrated  Declaration  of  Irish  Independence  in  17S2.  In  an 
address  to  the  Crown,  moved  as  an  amendment  by  Henry  Grattan,  and  carried  nem.  con 
(too  long  to  quote  in  extenso),  occurs  the  following  passage : — “ That  there  is  no  body  of 
men  competent  to  make  laws  to  bind  this  nation,  except  the  King,  Lords,  and  Commons, 
of  Ireland;  nor  any  other  Parliament  which  hath  any  authority  or  power  of  any  sort 
whatever,  in  this  country,  save  only  the  Parliament  of  Ireland.”  The  address  further 
declares  the  people  of  Ireland  “never  expressed  a desire  to  share  the  freedom  of  England, 
without  declaring  a determination  to  share  her  fate  likewise — standing  oe  failing 
with  the  Beitish  nation.” — Address  to  the  Crown,  moved  by  Mr.  Grattan  in  the  Irish 
Parliament,  16th  April,  1782.  The  Ministry  that  lost  America  to  England  had  just  gone 
out.  The  Rockingham  Administration  came  in,  and  in  a milder  spirit  of  rule  the  English 
Parliament  not  only  repealed  the  obnoxious  statute  complained  of  (6th  of  George  I.),  but 
subsequently  renounced  all  claim  to  bind  Ireland. 

t This  neighbourly  call  reminds  us  of  a funny  hit  of  dialogue  in  the  old  farce  of  “ The 
Citizen,”  where  the  spendthrift  son,  George,  wishing  to  make  his  avaricious  father  believe 
he  is  very  thrifty,  says,  friendship  is  all  very  well,  but  must  not  interfere  with  self-interest. 
“ Love  your  neighbour,  sir ; but  don’t  pull  down  your  own  hedge.”  The  father  replies, 
“ Very  good,  indeed  George ! Love  your  neighbour,  and  pull  down  his  hedge” 


288 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


GREEN  WERE  THE  FIELDS. 

Geobge  Nugent  Reynolds. 

Air,  “ Savourneen  Deelisli.” 

Green  were  the  fields  where  my  forefathers  dwelt,  0 ; 

Erin,  ma  vourneen  ! slan  leat  go  brah  !* 

Tho’  our  farm  it  was  small,  yet  comforts  we  felt,  0. 

Erin,  &c. 

At  length  came  the  day  when  our  lease  did  expire, 

Fain  would  I live  where  before  lived  my  sire ; 

Rut,  ah ! well-a-day  ! I was  forced  to  retire. 

Erin,  &c. 

Tho’  the  laws  I obey’d,  no  protection  I found,  0,f 
Erin,  &e. 

With  what  grief  I beheld  my  cot  burn’d  to  the  ground,  0 ! 

Erin,  &c. 

Forc’d  from  my  home  ; yea,  from  where  I was  born, 

To  range  the  wide  world — poor,  helpless,  forlorn  ; 

I look  back  with  regret — and  my  heart-strings  are  torn. 

Erin,  &c. 

With  principles  pure,  patriotic,  and  firm, 

Erin,  &c. 

To  my  country  attached,  and  a friend  to  reform, 

Erin,  &c. 

I supported  old  Ireland  — was  ready  to  die  for  it ; 

If  her  foes  e’er  prevail’d  I was  well  known  to  sigh  for  it ; 

Rut  my  faith  I preserv’d,  and  am  now  forced  to  fiy  for  it. 

Erin,  &c.  - 

\ Rut  hark  ! I hear  sounds,  and  my  heart  is  strong  beating, 

Erin,  &c. 

Loud  cries  for  redress,  and  avaunt  on  retreating, 

Erin,  &c. 

We  have  numbers,  and  numbers  do  constitute  power, 

Let  us  will  to  be  free — and  we’re  free  from  that  hour  : 

Of  Hibernia’s  brave  sons,  oh ! we  feel  we’re  the  flower. 

Erin,  &c. 

* Ireland,  my  darling  ! for  ever  adieu ! 

f The  saying  “ there  is  one  law  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor,”  which  we  hear  so 
often,  “ even  in  England ,”  in  these  days,  was  more  lamentably  pregnant  with  truth  in 
Ireland  in  those  days. 

X This  verse,  I apprehend,  is  an  interpolation. 

This  song,  supposed  to  have  been  written  some  time  about  1792,  was  given  in  one  of  the 
volumes  emanating  from  the  Young  Ireland  party,  under  the  title  of  “ The  Exile  of  Erin” — 
that  title  being  usurped  for  the  purpose  of  giving  colour  to  a most  unworthy  attempt,  which  is 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


2S9 


treated  of  hereafter.  I say  usurped — for  the  original  and  true  title  of  the  scng  is  that  given 
to  it  here ; but  it  was  called  the  Exile  of  Erin  in  the  publication  named  above,  with  a 
view  to  make  it  appear  as  the  first  part  of  a subject  carried  out  in  a higher  form  in  the 
second  part  by  the  same  author — thus  attempting  to  create  a belief  in  two  equally  im- 
probable (or  rather  impossible)  things— namely,  that  the  author  of  “Green  were  the  Fields” 
could  ever  have  written  the  noble  lyric  of  Campbell,  or  that  Campbell  could  have  been 
guilty  of  the  meanness  of  literary  piracy.  The  internal  evidence  borne  by  the  two  com- 
positions is  sufficient  to  establish  the  impossibility  of  the  first,  and  the  pre-eminent  literary 
reputation  of  Campbell  (my  honoured  and  lamented  friend)  is  sufficient  for  the  second  par 
of  the  question.  It  is  worthy  of  remark,  too,  that  the  word  “ exile”  never  once  occurs  in 
this  song, — while  “ Exile  of  Erin”  is  in  the  first  line  of  Campbell’s,  and,  most  naturally, 
suggested  its  title. 


TIIE  EXILE  OF  ERIE. 

Thomas  Campbell.  Eorn,  1777.  Died,  1844. 

This  celebrated  lyric  is  remarkable  in  two  ways.  First,  for  its  intrinsic  merits,  and 
next,  that  its  touching  expression  of  sentiment,  as  that  of  an  exiled  Irishman,  sprang 
from  the  sympathy  of  a man  who  was  not  a native  of  Ireland.  But  that  man  had  a deep 

14 


290 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


love  of  liberty  in  his  soul;  he  could  feel  for  Ireland  as  he  felt  for  Poland,  and  the  author 
of  that  often-quoted  line — 

“And  freedom  shriek’d — as  Kosciusko  fell,” 
sympathized  with  the  humble  exile  of  Erin. 

I cannot  help  expressing1  my  regret,  and  almost  a sense  of  shame,  that  any,  in  Ireland, 
could  be  so  forgetful  of  what  was  due  to  Campbell  for  such  a song,  as  to  make  the  attempt 
(alluded  to  in  the  note  to  the  preceding  song)  to  brand  with  the  charge  of  literary  piracy 
the  man  who  had  so  sympathized  with  the  Irish  exile. 

The  charge  that  Campbell  did  not  write  this  song,  which  he  published  under  his  name, 
was  first  made  in  1830,  twenty-nine  years  after  the  song  was  written.  Why  was  not  the 
charge  made  and  substantiated  (if  it  could  be)  before  ? In  law,  if  a man  holds  an  estate  for 
twenty  years,  unchallenged,  it  is  reckoned  a good  title.  Is  there  to  be  no  protection  on 
Parnassus  ? Campbell  publicly  denied  this  charge,  under  his  own  hand,  while  he  lived;  the 
charge  was  revived  when  he  was  in  the  grave.  What  can  be  said  of  this  ? 

“A  lion  preys  not  upon  carcasses.” 

But  the  charge  was  too  ridiculous  to  be  entertained  for  a moment  by  any  person  of  critical 
acumen.  Campbell’s  lyric  has  his  own  mint-mark  upon  it,  and  all  the  scrubbing  of 
presumptuous  meddlers  cannot  efface  it. 

“There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun,”  saith  the  preacher.  This  desire  to  damage 
reputation  has  ever  been : 

“ A falcon  towering  in  her  pride  of  place 
Was  by  a mousing  owl  hawked  at 

There  is  a passage  of  Moore’s  so  singularly  applicable  to  the  present  subject  that  I quote  it. 

“ In  a late  work,  professing  to  be  the  memoirs  of  Mr.  Sheridan,  there  are  some  wise 
doubts  expressed  as  to  his  being  really  the  author  of  ‘ The  School  for  Scandal,’  to  which, 
except  for  the  purpose  of  exposing  absurdity,  I should  not  have  thought  it  worth  while  to 
allude.  It  is  an  old  trick  of  detraction,  and  one  of  which  it  never  tires,  to  father  the  works 
of  eminent  writers  upon  others ; or,  at  least,  while  it  kindly  leaves  the  author  the  credit  of 
his  worst  performances,  to  find  some  one  in  the  background  to  ease  him  of  the  fame  of  his 
best.  When  this  sort  of  charge  is  brought  against  a contemporary,  the  motive  is  intelligible ; 
but,  such  an  abstract  pleasure  have  some  persons  in  merely  unsettling  the  crowns  of  Fame, 
that  a worthy  German  has  written  an  elaborate  book  to  prove  that  the  Iliad  was  written, 
not  by  that  particular  Homer  the  world  supposes,  but  by  some  other  Homer  I In  truth,  if 
mankind  were  to  be  influenced  by  those  qm  tam  critics,  who  have,  from  time  to  time,  in 
the  course  of  the  history  of  literature,  exhibited  informations  of  plagiarism  against  great 
authors,  the  property  of  fame  would  pass  from  its  present  holders  into  the  hands  of 
persons  with  whom  the  world  is  but  little  acquainted.  Aristotle  must  refund  to  one  Ocellus 
Lucanus— Virgil  must  make  a eessio  bonorum  in  favour  of  Pisander.  The  metamorphoses 
of  Ovid  must  be  credited  to  the  account  of  Parthenius  of  Nictea,  and  (to  come  to  a modern 
instance)  Mr.  Sheridan  must,  according  to  his  biographer,  Dr.  Watkins,  surrender  the 
glory  of  having  written  the  ‘School  for  Scandal’  to  a certain  anonymous  young  lady,  who 
died  of  consumption  in  Thames-street ! ” — Moore’s  Life  of  Sheridan.  8vo.  Yol.  I.  p.  254. 

The  Americans  seem  determined  not  to  be  surpassed  by  the  rest  of  the  world  in  this,  as  in 
many  other  achievements.  When  a planet,  before  it  was  ever  seen  in  the  unexplored  depths  of 
space,  was  declared  to  exist,  by  Le  Verrier,  and  when,  to  the  delight  of  every  generous  mind 


HISTORICAL  AXD  POLITICAL  SOXGS. 


291 


at  this  marvellous  triumph  of  science,  it  did  appear  in  the  very  place  where  Le  Verrier 
prophesied  it  would  be  found  at  a certain  time,  a jealous  Yankee  star-gazer  published  a letter 
to  declare  that  the  planet  thus  revealed,  was  not  the  planet  Le  Verrier  thought  it  was. 
Another  American,  but  the  other  day,  favoured  us  with  the  amusing  information  that  the 
Plays  of  Shakspeare  (so  called)  were  written  by  Lord  Bacon. 

But,  enough  of  such  odious  theme ! Let  us  turn  from  this  miserable  spirit  of  detraction 
to  the  generous  outburst  of  a poet’s  soul. 

There  came  to  the  beach  a poor  Exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill ; 

For  his  country  he  sighed,  when  at  twilight  repairing 
To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill : 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eyes’  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o’er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once  in  the  hre  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sad  is  my  fate,  said  the  heart-broken  stranger ; 

The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a covert  can  flee  ; 

But  I have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 

A home  and  a country  remain  not  to  me. 

Never  again  in' the  green  sunny  bowers, 

Where  my  forefathers  liv’d,  shall  I spend  the  sweet  hours, 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowers, 

And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Erin,  my  country,  tho’  sad  and  forsaken, 

In  dreams  I revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore, 

But,  alas  ! in  a far  foreign  land  I awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more. 

Oh  cruel  fate  ! wilt  thou  never  replace  me 

In  a mansion  of  peace — where  no  perils  can  chase  me  ? 
Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ? 

They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore ! 

Where  is  my  cabin  door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood  ? 

Sisters  and  sire,  did  you  weep  for  its  fall  ? 

Where  is  the  mother  that  look’d  on  my  childhood  ? 

Where  is  the  bosom-friend,  dearer  than  all  ? 

Oh ! my  sad  heart ! long  abandon’d  by  pleasure, 

Why  did  it  dote  on  a fast-fading  treasure, 

Tears,  like  the  rain-drop,  may  fall  without  measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

Yet,  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing. 

One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw : 

Erin ! an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing ! 

Land  of  my  forefathers ! Erin  go  bragh ! 


292 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  he  thy  fields, — sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean, 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  devotion, 

Erin,  ma  vourneen  ! Erin  go  bragh  ! * 

* Ireland,  my  darling ! Ireland  for  ever ! 

This  song  surpasses  by  far  all  that  were  ever  written  to  the  lovely  air  of  Sauourneen 
Deelish.  Moore  felt  that  a melody  of  such  beauty  must  appear  in  his  “ Irish  Melodies,”  but 
he  abstained  from  using  it  for  a long  time,  conscious  of  the  formidable  rivalry  he  had 
to  encounter.  He  says  himself,  “ I must  express  my  diffidence  in  treading  upon  the  same 
ground  with  Mr.  Campbell,  whose  beautiful  words  to  this  fine  air  have  taken  too  strong 
possession  of  all  ears  and  hearts  for  me  to  think  of  following  in  his  footsteps  with  any 
success.” 


THE  CROPPY  BOY. 

A Ballad  of  ’98. 

Carroll  Malone. 

The  revolutionary  party  in  Ireland  of  this  period  wore  their  hair  short,  like  the  round- 
heads  of  Cromwell’s  day — lienee  the  term  “ crop,”  or  “ croppy.”  The  dramatic  spirit  of 
this  ballad  imparts  to  it  a strange  interest. 

“ Good  men  and  true!  in  this  house  who  dwell, 

To  a stranger  bouchal\  I pray  you  tell 
Is  the  priest  at  home  ? or  may  he  he  seen  ? 

I would  speak  a word  with  Father  Green.” 

“ The  priest’s  at  home,  hoy,  and  may  he  seen ; 

’Tis  easy  speaking  with  Father  Green ; 

But  you  must  wait  till  I go  and  see 
If  the  holy  Father  alone  may  he.” 

The  youth  has  entered  an  empty  hall — 

"What  a lonely  sound  has  his  light  foot-fall ! 

And  the  gloomy  chamber’s  chill  and  hare, 

With  a vested  priest  in  a lonely  chair. 

The  youth  has  knelt  to  tell  his  sins : 

“ Nomine  Dei ,”  the  youth  begins ; 

At  “ mea  culpa ” he  beats  his  breast, 

And  in  broken  murmurs  he  speaks  the  rest. 


t Boy^ 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


293 


il  At  the  siege  of  Boss  did  my  father  fall, 

And  at  Gorey  my  loving  brothers  all. 

I alone  am  left  of  my  name  and  race; 

I will  go  to  Wexford*  and  take  their  place. 

“ I cursed  three  times  since  last  Easter  day — 

At  mass-time  once  I went  to  play ; 

I passed  the  churchyard  one  day  in  haste, 

And  forgot  to  pray  for  my  mother’s  rest. 

“ I bear  no  hate  against  living  thing ; 

But  I love  my  country  above  my  king. 

Now,  Father ! bless  me,  and  let  me  go 
To  die,  if  God  has  ordained  it  so.” 

The  priest  said  nought,  but  a rustling  noise 
Made  the  youth  look  up  in  wild  surprise ; 

The  robes  were  off,  and  in  scarlet  there 
Sat  a yeoman  captain  with  fiery  glare. 

With  fiery  glare  and  with  fury  hoarse, 

Instead  of  blessing,  he  breathed  a curse : — 

11  ’Twas  a good  thought,  boy,  to  come  here  and  shrive, 
For  one  short  hour  is  your  time  to  live. 

“ Upon  yon  river  three  tenders  float,  f 
The  priest's  in  one,  if  he  isn’t  shot— 

We  hold  his  house  for  our  Lord  the  King, 

And,  amen  say  I,  may  all  traitors  swing  !” 

At  Geneva  Barrack^  that  young  man  died, 

And  at  Passage  they  have  his  body  laid. 

Good  people  who  live  in  peace  and  joy, 

Give  a prayer  and  a tear  for  the  Croppy  Boy. 


* The  rebels  made  a desperate  stand  at  Wexford,  which  was  in  their  hands  for  some 
time ; and  there  the  sanguinary  spirit  of  both  parties  was  fearfully  displayed.  It  was  not 
the  first  time  Wexford  beheld  a massacre,  for  Cromwell,  in  1649,  placed  a red  letter  before 
his  name,  there,  in  the  page  of  history. 

t Guard-ships  were  anchored  off  Wexford,  which  served  as  prisons  for  the  captured 
rebels,  or  suspected  persons. 

% A military  station  in  Wexford  county. 


294 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


MARY  LE  MORE. 

The  Maniac  of  1798. 

George  Nugent  Reynolds.  Air,  “ Savourneen  Deelish." 

This  is  among  the  best  of  Mr.  Reynolds’s  poetical  effusions,  and  gives  a fearful  picture  of 
the  times  it  represents. 

As  I stray’d  o’er  the  common  on  Cork’s  rugged  border, 

While  the  dew-drops  of  morn  the  sweet  primrose  array’d, 

I saw  a poor  maiden  whose  mental  disorder 

Her  quick- glancing  eye  and  wild  aspect  betray’d. 

On  the  sward  she  reclin’d,  by  the  green  fern  surrounded, 

At  her  side  speckled  daisies  and  wild  flow’rs  abounded ; 

To  its  inmost  recesses  her  heart  had  been  wounded  ; 

Her  sighs  were  unceasing — ’twas  Mary  le  More. 

Her  charms  by  the  keen  blasts  of  sorrow  were  faded, 

Yet  the  soft  tinge  of  beauty  still  play’d  on  her  cheek ; 

Her  tresses  a wreath  of  pale  primroses  braided, 

And  strings  of  fresh  daisies  hung  loose  on  her  neck. 

"While  with  pity  I gaz’d,  she  exclaim’d,  “ 0 my  Mother  ! 

See  the  blood  on  that  lash,  ’tis  the  blood  of  my  brother ; 

They  have  torn  his  poor  fbesh,  and  they  now  strip  another — 

’Tis  Connor,  the  friend  of  poor  Mary  le  More. 

“ Though  his  locks  were  as  white  as  the  foam  of  the  ocean, 

Those  wretches  shall  find  that  my  father  is  brave ; 

My  father !”  she  cried,  with  the  wildest  emotion, 

“ Ah ! no,  my  poor  father  now  sleeps  in  the  grave  !* 

They  have  tolled  his  death-bell,  they’ve  laid  the  turf  o’er  him  ; 

His  white  locks  were  bloody ! no  aid  could  restore  him ; 

He  is  gone  ! he  is  gone ! and  the  good  will  deplore  him, 

When  the  blue  waves  of  Erin  hide  Mary  le  More.” 


* This  is  an  allusion  to  a song  written  some  time  previously,  entitled  “Mary  Le  More,” 
in  which  the  burning  of  a cabin,  accompanied  with  murder  and  violation,  is  the  subject,  and 
in  which  I remember  this  verse  occurs — 

“One  cold  winter’s  night,  as  poor  Dermot  sat  musing, 

Hoarse  curses  alarm’d  him,  and  crash  went  the  door; 

The  fierce  sQldiers  enter’d,  and  straight  'gan  abusing 
The  mild  but  brave  father  of  Mary  Le  More; 

To  their  taunts  he  replied  not — with  blows  they  assail’d  him — 

He  felt  all  indignant,  his  patience  now  fail’d  him — 

He  return’d  their  rile  blows;  and  all  Munster  bewail’d  him — 

For  stabb’d  was  the  father  of  Mary  le  More.” 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


295 


A lark,  from  the  gold -blossom’d  fi;rze  that  grew  near  her, 

Now  rose,  and  with  energy  caroll’d  his  lay  ; 

“Hush,  hush  I”  she  continued,  “the  trumpet  sounds  clearer; 

The  horsemen  approach ! Erin’s  daughters,  away  ! 

Ah  ! soldiers,  ’twas  foul,  while  the  cabin  was  burning, 

And  o’er  a pale  father  a wretch  had  been  mourning — 

Go,  hide  with  the  sea-mew,  ye  maids,  and  take  warning, 

Those  ruffians  have  ruin’d  poor  Mary  le  More. 

“ Away,  bring  the  ointment : 0 God  ! see  those  gashes ! 

Alas ! my  poor  brother,  come  dry  the  big  tear  ; 

Anon  we’ll  have  vengeance  for  these  dreadful  lashes  ; 

Already  the  screech-owl  and  raven  appear. 

By  day  the  green  grave,  that  lies  under  the  willow, 

With  wild  tiow’rs  I’ll  strew,  and  by  night  make  my  pillow, 
Till  the  ooze  and  dark  sea-weed,  beneath  the  curl’d  billow, 
Shall  furnish  a death-bed  for  Mary  le  More.” 

Thus  rav’d  the  poor  maniac,  in  tones  more  heart-rending  '-*■ 
Than  sanity’s  voice  ever  pour’d  on  my  ear, 

When,  lo  ! on  the  waste,  and  their  march  tow’rds  her  bending, 
A troop  of  fierce  cavalry  chanc’d  to  appear ; 

“0,  ye  fiends  !”  she  exclaim’d,  and  with  wild  horror  started; 
Then  through  the  tall  fern,  loudly  screaming,  she  darted ; 
With  an  overcharg’d  bosom  I slowly  departed, 

And  sigh’d  for  the  wrongs  of  poor  Mary  le  More. 


“HABBY’S  SWOBD.” 

The  following  spirited  and  tender  lines,  which  are  attributed  to  a distinguished  Presby- 
terian clergyman,  are  supposed  to  be  addressed  to  the  sword  of  Harry  M'Cracken  by  his 
sister.  Harry  M'Cracken  was  engaged,  and  distinguished  himself  by  his  courage,  in  open 
battle ; was  subsequently  taken  prisoner,  and  died  heroically  on  the  scaffold, — where,  up 
to  the  last  moment,  he  was  made  conscious  of  the  unflinching  love  and  Spartan  fortitude 
of  that  very  sister.  Scott  makes  us  wonder  at  the  heroism  of  Flora  MTvor  in  making  the 
shroud  for  her  brother  Fergus.  How  near  fiction  may  come  to  truth ! — or  did  Scott 
derive  his  incident  from  fact  ? To  what  a fearful  pitch  must  nerve  be  wrought  by  such 
times  of  excitement ! 

’Tis  the  sword  of  my  Harry — its  own  native  hue — 

The  emerald  handle — and  steel’s  glossy  blue  : 

I know  the  curv’d  sweep  of  the  well-temper’d  blade, 

With  shamrock  of  gold  and  sweet  myrtle  inlaid. 

How  oft  has  it  shone  on  the  mountains  afar, 

When  it  marshall’ d the  sons  of  green  Erin  for  war — 

The  avenger  of  wrong  and  the  scourge  of  the  foe ! 

But  the  hand  that  could  wield  it,  alas  ! is  laid  low. 


298 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


How  long  has  it  slumber’d  secure  in  the  sheath  ! 

And  years  have  roll’d  on  since  it  flash’d  on  the  heath ; 

From  its  hilt  the  green  shamrocks  that  once  bloom’d  so  gay, 
Fair  emblems  of  freedom,  have  all  died  away. 

The  tooth  of  fell  Time  has  been  trying  the  blade, 

And  a spot  of  dark  rust  marks  the  pressure  it  made ; 

How  it  drinks  up  my  tears,  as  it  shar’d  in  my  woe — 

For  the  hand  that  could  wield  it,  alas  ! is  laid  low. 

Oh  ! would  that  these  tears  might  its  splendour  restore ! 

But  ne’er  can  it  shine  as  it  oft  shone  before, 

When,  like  heaven’s  fires,  it  the  conflict  began, 

And  Harry  and  Victory  blaz’d  in  the  van  : 

Then  rout  and  dismay  urg’d  the  proud  Saxon  horde, 

And  death  mark’d  each  whirl  of  the  conquering  sword — 
But  no  more  shall  it  hurl  such  despair  on  the  foe, 

Since  the  hand  that  could  wield  it,  alas ! is  laid  low. 


THE  PATRIOT  MOTHER. 

A Ballad  of  ’93. 

tf  Come,  tell  us  the  name  of  the  rebelly  crew 
Who  lifted  the  pike  on  the  Curragh  with  you ; 

Come,  tell  us  their  treason,  and  then  you’ll  be  free, 

Or  by  heavens  you  shall  swing  from  the  high  gallows  tree.” 

“ Alcmna!  alannal*  the  shadow  of  shame 
Has  never  yet  fallen  upon  one  of  your  name, 

And,  oh ! may  the  food  from  my  bosom  you  drew, 

In  your  veins  turn  to  poison,  if  you  turn  untrue. 

‘ ‘ The  foul  words — oh ! let  them  not  blacken  your  tongue, 

That  would  prove  to  your  friends  and  your  country  a wrong, 

Or  the  curse  of  a mother,  so  bitter  and  dread, 

With  the  wrath  of  the  L'ord — may  they  fall  on  your  head ! 

‘ ‘ I have  no  one  but  you  in  the  whole  world  wide, 

Yet,  false  to  your  pledge,  you’d  ne’er  stand  at  my  side ; 

If  a traitor  you  liv’d,  you’d  be  farther  away 

From  my  heart  than,  if  true,  you  were  wrapp’d  in  the  clay. 

“ Oh!  deeper  and  darker  the  mourning  would  be 

For  your  falsehood  so  base,  than  your  death  proud  and  free ; 

Dearer,  far  dearer  than  ever  to  me, 

My  darling,  you’R  be  on  the  brave  gallows  tree. 

* Alaneacht  signifies  beauty the  exclamation  is  therefore  equivalent  to  the  English 
“ My  beautiful ! ” and  the  subsequent  text  proves  she  might  have  added,  “ my  brave ! ” 


HISTORICAL  AND  EOLITICAL  SONGS, 


297 


11  ’Tis  holy,  agra  /f  with  the  bravest  and  best 
Go!  go!  from  my  heart,  and  be  join’d  with  the  rest; 

Alanna  ma  chree!  O,  alanna  ma  chree!% 

Sure  a ‘ stag ’ § and  a traitor  you  never  will  be.” 

There’s  no  look  of  a traitor  upon  the  young  brow 
That’s  raised  to  the  tempters  so  haughtily  now ; 

No  traitor  e’er  held  up  the  firm  head  so  high — 

No  traitor  e’er  show’d  such  a proud  flashing  eye. 

On  the  high  gallows  tree ! on  the  brave  gallows  tree ! 

Where  smil’d  leaves  and  blossoms,  his  sad  doom  met  lie; 

But  it  never  bore  blossom  so  pure  or  so  fair, 

As  the  heart  of  the  martyr  that  hangs  from  it  there. 

t My  love.  t Beauty  of  my  heart.  § An  informer. 

The  heroism  described  in  the  foregoing  lines  was  not  uncommon.  My  father  witnessed 
a case  somewhat  similar : a mother  stood  by  while  her  young  son  (little  more  than  a boy) 
was  undergoing  the  agony  of  the  lash,  exhorting  him  never  to  disgrace  himself  by  becoming 
an  informer. 

« 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

These  lines  are  from  that  remarkable  volume  entitled  “The  Spirit  of  the  Nation;”  and 
are  remarkable  among  things  of  mark.  Much  in  that  volume  abounds  in  high  poetic 
qualities,  but  the  period  in  which  it  appeared  is  too  near  our  own  times  not  to  suggest  the 
question  to  an  editor  how  far  it  is  wise  to  make  extracts  bearing  upon  a period  of  great 
political  excitement,  in  which  the  feelings  of  the  present  generation  were  engaged.  Eut, 
in  this  particular  section  of  the  volume,  devoted  especially  to  political  songs,  of  all  parties, 
the  following  is  entitled  to  a place  for  its  high  literary  merit.  It  is  vigorous,  tender,  and 
enthusiastic ; and  the  free  flow  of  the  versification  vouches  for  the  spontaniety  of  this  spirit- 
stirring  song. 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 

When  cowards  mock  the  patriot’s  fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 

He’s  all  a knave,  or  half  a slave, 

Who  slights  his  country  thus ; 

But  a true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few — 

Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave — 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too  ; 

All — all  are  gone — but  still  lives  on 
The  fame  of  those  who  died — 

All  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Remember  them  with  pride. 

14* 


298 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 
Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 

And  by  the  stranger’s  heedless  hands 
Their  lonely  graves  were  made ; 

But,  though  their  clay  he  far  away 
Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam — 

In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit ’s  still  at  home. 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth  ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest ; 

And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 
Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 

And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 
Full  many  a race  may  start 

Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 
To  right  their  native  land ; 

They  kindled  here  a living  blaze 
That  nothing  shall  withstand. 

Alas  ! that  Might  can  vanquish  Bight — 
They  fell  and  passed  away  ; 

But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here’s  their  memory — may  it  bo 
For  us  a guiding  light, 

To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite. 

Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland’s  still, 
Though  sad*  as  their’ s your  fate  ; 

And  true  men  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Mnety-Eight. 


A PROSPECTi 

Edward  Ltsaght.  Air,  “ Let  the  Toast  Pass.” 

In  this  song  Lysaght  prefigures,  in  a vein  of  bitter  mirth,  the  impending  ruin  of  Dublin 
by  the  projected  measure  of  the  Union. 

How  justly  alarmed  is  each  Dublin  cit 

That  he’ll  soon  be  transformed  to  a clown,  sir  ! 

By  a magical  move  of  that  conjurer,  Pitt, 

The  country  is  coming  to  town,  sir  ! 

Give  Pitt,  and  Dundas,  and  J enky  a glass, 

Who’d  ride  on  John  Bull,  and  make  Paddy  an  Ass, 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


299 


Thro’  Capel-street  soon  as  you’ll  rurally  range, 

You’ll  scarce  recognise  it  the  same  street ; 

Choice  turnips  shall  grow  in  your  Royal  Exchange, 

And  fine  cabbages  down  along  Dame-street.  * ** 

Give  Pitt,  &c. 

Wild  oats  in  the  college  won’t  want  to  be  till’d  ; 

And  hemp  in  the  Four-Courts  may  thrive,  sir  ! 

Your  markets  again  shall  with  muttons  be  fill’d — 

By  St.  Patrick,  they’ll  graze  there  alive,  sir ! 

Give  Pitt,  &c. 

In  the  Parliament  House,  quite  alive,  shall  there  be 
All  the  vermin  the  island  e’er  gathers  ; 

Full  of  rooks,  as  before,  Daly’s  club-house  you’ll  see, 

But  the  pigeons  won’t  have  any  feathers. 

Give  Pitt,  &c. 

Our  Custom  House  quay,  full  of  weeds,  oh,  rare  sport 
But  the  Ministers’  minions,  kind  elves,  sir  ! 

Will  give  us  free  leave  all  our  goods  to  export,  f 
When  we’ve  got  none  at  home  for  ourselves,  sir ! 

Give  Pitt,  &c. 

Says  an  alderman — “ Corn  will  soon  grow  in  your  shops; 

This  Union  must  work  our  enslavement.” 

“ That’s  true  ” says  the  Sheriff*,  “for  plenty  of  crops\ 

Already  I’ve  seen  on  the  pavement.” 

Give  Pitt,  &c. 

Ye  brave  loyal  yeoman  dress’d  gaily  in  red, 

This  Ministers’  plan  must  elate  us  ; 

And  well  may  John  Bull,  when  he’s  robbed  us  of  bread, 

Call  poor  Ireland  “the  land  of  potatoes.” 

Give  Pitt,  &*c. 

* Dame-street  and  Capel-street,  two  great  thoroughfares;  the  former  was  then  the 

**  Bond-street  ” of  Dublin. 

t The  limitation  of  exports  and  imports  was  a source  of  great  discontent. 

t Those  of  the  democratic  party  wore  short  hair — hence  they  were  called  “ crops  ” or 
‘‘croppies.”  The  croppy  of  Ireland  was  equivalent  to  the  English  “roundhead”  of  a 
century  and  a half  before.  In  both  these  cases  the  people  cut  short  their  hair  and  their 
allegiance  together. 


THE  RECONCILIATION. 

John  Banim. 

This  ballad  is  said  to  have  been  founded  on  a fact  which  occurred  in  a remote  country 
chapel  at  the  time  when  exertions  were  made  to  put  down  faction-fights  among  the 
peasantry. 

The  old  man  he  knelt  at  the  altar 
His  enemy’s  hand  to  take, 

And  at  first  his  weak  voice  did  falter, 

And  his  feeble  limbs  did  shake ; 

For  his  only  brave  boy,  his  glory, 

Had  been  stretch’d  at  the  old  man’s  feet, 

A corpse,  all  so.  haggard  and  gory, 

By  the  hand  which  he  now  must  greet. 

And  soon  the  old  man  stopp’d  speaking, 

And  rage  which  had  not  gone  by, 

From  under  his  brows  came  breaking 
Up  into  his  enemy’s  eye — 

And  now  his  limbs  were  not  shaking, 

But  his  clench’d  hands  his  bosom  cross’d, 

And  he  look’d  a fierce  wish  to  be  taking 
llevenge  for  the  boy  he  had  lost ! 

But  the  old  man  he  looked  aroun  him, 

And  thought  of  the  place  he  was  in, 

And  thought  of  the  promise  which  bound  him, 

And  thought  that  revenge  was  sin — 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


301 


And  then,  crying  tears,  like  a woman, 

“ Your  hand !”  he  said — “ aye,  that  hand ! 

And  I do  forgive  you,  foeman, 

For  the  sake  of  our  bleeding  land ! ” 

A certain  gallant  major,  a stipendiary  magistrate,  some  thirty  years  ago  was  quizzed  by  the 
English  press,  for  a bull  he  committed  in  an  official  report  to  Government  on  the  state  of 
the  south-western  provinces.  He  said,  the  best  proof  of  returning  tranquillity  was,  that 
the  people  had  recommenced  their  faction- fights.  Now,  a most  expressive  meaning  lay  be- 
neath this  apparent  contradiction,  as  is  frequently  the  case  in  that  figure  of  speech  entitled 
an  Irish  bull,  for  it  was  a fact,  that,  whenever  the  peasantry  were  leagued  in  unlawful  com- 
binations against  constituted  authority,  they  ceased  to  fight  among  themselves. 


DEAR  LAND. 

"W hen  comes  the  day  all  hearts  to  weigh, 

If  staunch  they  be,  or  vile, 

Shall  we  forget  the  sacred  debt 
W e owe  our  mother  isle  ? 

My  native  heath  is  brown  beneath, 

My  native  waters  blue  ; 

But  crimson  red  o’er  both  shall  spread, 

Ere  I am  false  to  you, 

Dear  land — 

Ere  I am  false  to  you. 

"When  I behold  your  mountains  bold — 

Your  noble  lakes  and  streams — 

A mingled  tide  of  grief  and  pride 
Within  my  bosom  teems. 

I think  of  all  your  long  dark  thrall— 

Your  martyrs  brave  and  true ; 

And  dash  apart  the  tears  that  start — 

We  must  not  weep  for  you, 

Dear  land — 

We  must  not  weep  for  you. 

My  grandsire  died,  his  home  beside ; 

They  seized  and  hanged  him  there  ; 

His  only  crime,  in  evil  time, 

Your  hallowed  green  to  wear. 

Across  the  main  his  brothers  twain 
W ere  sent  to  pine  and  rue  ; 

And  still  they  turn’d,  with  hearts  that  burn’d, 
In  hopeless  love  to  you 

Dear  land — 

In  hopeless  love  to  you. 


302 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


My  boyish  ear  still  clung  to  bear 
Of  Erin’s  pride  of  yore. 

Ere  Norman  foot  bad  dared  pollute 
Her  independent  shore : 

Of  chiefs,  long  dead,  who  rose  to  head 
Some  gallant  patriot  few, 

Till  all  my  aim  on  earth  became 
To  strike  one  blow  for  you, 

Hear  land — 

To  strike  one  blow  for  you. 

What  path  is  best  your  rights  to  wrest 
Let  other  heads  divine  ; 

By  work  or  word,  with  voice  or  sword, 

To  follow  them  be  mine. 

The  breast  that  zeal  and  hatred  steel, 

No  terrors  can  subdue  ; 

If  death  should  come,  that  martyrdom 
Were  sweet,  endured  for  you, 

Hear  land — 

Were  sweet,  endured  for  you. 

No  name  is  given  to  claim  the  authorship  of  these  passionate  lines.  There  arc  many 
who  would  not  like  to  father  the  politics  of  the  song there  are  none  who  might  not  be 
proud  of  its  poetic  paternity.  But,  passing  its  higher  claims,  it  is  worthy  of  notice  for 
facility  of  expression; — the  meaning  is  never  involved  for  an  instant,  though  it  runs 
through  difficult  passages  of  double  rhymes,  thus  increasing  the  mechanical  difficulty 
The  model  of  its  rythmical  structure  is  to  be  found,  if  I am  not  much  mistaken,  in  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  Moore’s  songs  in  his  National  Melodies 

“ Then  fare  thee  well  my  own  dear  love. 

This  world  has  now,  for  us. 

No  greater  grief,  nor  pain  above 
The  pain  of  parting  thus, 

Dear  love, 

The  pain  of  parting  thus.’’ 

I knew  a young  man  of  great  talent  and  strong  feeling  who  loved  that  song,  and  the 
writer  of  that  song,  and  all  the  writer  of  that  song  loved ; and  I am  inclined  to  think  that 
early  acquaintance  of  mine  was  the  author  of  this  fervid  song — “ Dear  Land.” 


In  the  introduction  tc^this  section  I spoke  of  the  difficulty  of  deal- 
ing with  such  a class  of  songs ; and  in  making  the  foregoing  selection 
a careful  abstinence  has  been  desired,  and  I hope  observed,  from  the 
use  of  any  specimen  in  which  expressions  of  extreme  bitterness  or 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


303 


harsh  offensiveness  occur.  There  are  a good  many  of  the  political 
songs  of  Ireland  much  more  emphatic  in  epithet , much  more  intense 
in  terms , on  both  sides  of  the  question,  which,  however  safe — I will 
even  say  interesting  to  read,  by  those  who  can  look  upon  them  as 
mere  literary  relics — the  ashes  of  fires  burnt  out — might  never- 
theless arouse  feelings  in  many  readers  which  the  pages  of  this  book 
were  never  meant  to  awaken. 

I wish  it  to  be  believed  that  it  is  not  want  of  information,  on  my 
part,  of  the  existence  of  such  combustible  material  that  prevented  me 
from  making  a blazing  section  in  my  book,  but  a desire,  which  I am 
sure  the  wise  and  the  gentle-hearted  will  respect,  to  avoid  even  the 
risk  of  exciting  angry  passions. 

I could  give  examples,  from  what  might  be  called  specially  the 
Rebel  and  Orange  songs  of  Ireland,  of  the  extreme  ferocity  to 
which  political  feelings  may  hurry  us — and  by  a contrast  (not  un- 
usual in  human  nature)  touches  of  tenderness  are  close  beside  these 
passionate  outbreaks,  like  spots  of  verdure  on  the  edge  of  the 
volcano — but  I will  content  myself  with  merely  touching  on  two  or 
three  small  portions  of  such  fierce  examples,  to  show  that  it  is  not 
from  my  ignorance  of  the  existence  of  such  compositions  that  they  do 
not  appear  in  this  volume.  There  is  a rebel  song  illustrative  of  the 
tenderness  I have  alluded  to,  and  giving,  also,  the  other  aspect  of 
feeling.  The  rebel  is  supposed  to  contemplate  flight  to  a foreign  land 
he  dare  not  appear  in  his  native  place  again,  and  he  exclaims, — 

“ Then  farewell  father,  and  mother  too, 

And  sister  Mary  : — I have  but  you  ! — 

A thousand  guineas  you  would  lay  down 
If  I might  walk  in  Wexford  town.” 

I think  there  is  great  tenderness  in  this  verse.  But  he  must  not 
walk  in  Wexford  town — for  there  are  those  there  who  are  singing  a 
fierce  song  on  the  other  side  of  the  question,  the  refrain  of  which  is, — 
“ Holy  water, 

Slaughter,  slaughter  • 

Sprinkle  the  Catholics  every  one, 

We’ll  cut  them  asunder 
And  make  them  lie  under, 

And  Protestant  hoys  shall  carry  the  day/* 

Well — the  fugitive  who  has  sung  the  plaintive  strain  has  not  done 
his  song  yet;  he  contemplates  coming  back  to  Ireland  on  some 
future  day,  and,  after  lamenting  his  hard  lot  in  being  expatriated, 
he  concludes  with  a promise  displaying  quite  as  much  ferocity  as  his 
antagonists — 


304 


HISTORICAL  AND  POLITICAL  SONGS. 


“ But  if  I live,  aud  that  I come  home, 

I will  whet  my  pike  on  their  orange  bones.” 

But  political  vengeance  is  not  exhausted  in  this  world  : the  next  is 
looked  forward  to  for  its  aggravation.  The  Celtic  race,  I imagine, 
are  fond  of  an  appeal  to  the  “ courts  below:”  llhadamanthus  in  pre- 
ference to  the  Lord  Chancellor — coalsack  versus  woolsack.  In  one  of 
the  Scotch  Jacobite  songs,  the  hatred  borne  to  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land is  thus  expressed — 

“ The  Deil  sat  girnin  in  the  neuk 
Ryving  sticks  to  roast  the  Duke.” 

Mr.  Thomas  Crofton  Croker,  in  one  of  his  translations  of  an  Irish 
Keen  ( Caoine ),  makes  part  of  the  lamentation  over  the  dead  run 
thus : 

“ The  Condons  of  Cloughlea 
That  was  sold  by  a piper, 

May  he  caper  in  hell 

To  his  tune — the  false  viper ! ” 

Here,  the  grotesque,  so  inherent  in  the  Irish  character,  mingles  with 
the  vengeful.  But  those  lines  are  far  surpassed  by  a verse  of  an  Irish 
rebel  ballad,  that  concludes  thus ; and  for  wild  vigour  of  fancy,  and 
intensity  of  hatred,  I know  nothing  to  match  it, — 

“ The  tree  of  Liberty  is  planted 
In  the  flames  of  burning  hell, 

And  the  fruit  that  grows  upon  it 
Is  the  sowls  of  Orangemen.” 

And  here  concludes  our  section  of  the  specimens  of  the  songs  of 
parties,  and  I think  it  will  be  admitted  there  was  no  love  lost  between 
them. 


T is  almost  needless  for  an  editor  to 
remind  the  reader,  that  much  cannot  be 
said  in  the  way  of  introduction  to  a 
section  which  is  headed  “Miscellaneous.” 
It  may  he  inferred  that  the  compositions 
given  under  such  a heading  do  not  treat  so 
exclusively  of  one  subject — have  not  such 
special  points  of  character,  as  to  mark  them, 
at  once,  for  classification  under  particular 
heads  ; but  let  it  not  be  therefore  supposed 
that,  like  Pope’s  women,  they 

“ Have  no  character  at  all.” 


Far  from  it,  as  the  examples  given  will  sufficiently  prove. 

Our  miscellany  is  not  “a  mixed  party” — that  thing  which  is  not 


308 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


considered  respectable,  and  at  which  everybody  agrees  nobody  should 
appear.  By  no  means : it  has  variety,  it  is  true,  but  no  portion  of 
the  company  need  be  ashamed  to  mix  with  the  other,  though  they 
be  not  all  of  the  same  class,  or  equally  high  in  rank. 

Neither  is  this  last  section  a beating-up  of  raw  recruits  to  fill  our 
columns: — on  the  contrary,  here  will  be  found  some  of  the  choicest 
of  our  levies ; and  among  these  I will  venture  to  particularize  Mr. 
Ferguson’s  celebrated  ode,  “ The  Forging  of  the  Anchor,”  which  is, 
without  doubt,  one  of  the  finest  things  in  the  English  language. 

In  writing  the  introduction  to  the  last  section  of  this  book,  I 
feel  as  if  I were  parting  from  a dear  old  acquaintance.  The  work 
became,  as  I have  said  in  the  preface,  a labour  of  love  as  it  pro- 
gressed; and  in  the  calm  of  some  rich  summer  sunset,  which  might 
not  inaptly  be  likened  to  the  golden  glories  that  hang  round  the  old 
minstrelsy  of  my  native  land,  or  by  the  winter  fire  of  my  little 
library,  it  has  been  my  companion  for  more  than  a year,  and  in  such 
companionship  many  were  the  thoughtful  pleasant  hours.  If  it  be 
not  all  it  ought  to  be,  I can  only  blame  my  incapacity ; for  I can- 
didly confess  I have  not  spared  either  time  or  toil  to  make  it  worthy 
of  the  object  I had  in  view:  — an  honourable  testimonial  to  tile 
genius  of  Ireland. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


307 


THE  FORESTER’S  COMPLAINT. 

Samuel  Ferguson,  M.R.I.A. 

The  post  of  honour  in  this  section  is  Mr.  Ferguson’s; — his  verses  lead 
here  he  appears,  not  in  a translation,  but  an  original  poem.  An  expression 
for  his  genius  in  general,  and  an  acknowledgment  of  indebtedness  to  him, 
appended  to  his  noble  ode,  “ The  Forging  of  the  Anchor,”  p.  312. 

Through  our  wild  wood-walks  hero 
Sunbright  and  shady, 

Free  as  the  forest  deer 
Roams  a lone  lady : 

Far  from  her  castle-keep, 

Down  i’  the  valley, 

Roams  she,  by  dingle  deep, 

Green  holme  and  alley  ; 

With  her  sweet  presence  bright 
Gladd’ning  my  dwelling — 

Oh,  fair  her  face  of  light, 

Past  the  tongue’s  telling! 

Woe  was  me 
E’er  to  see 
Beauty  so  shining ; 

Ever  since,  hourly, 

Have  I been  pining ! 

In  our  blithe  sports’  debates 
Down  by  the  river, 

I,  of  my  merry  mates, 

Foremost  was  ever ; 

Skilfullest  with  my  flute, 

Leading  the  maidens 
Heark’ning  by  moonlight  mute 
To  its  sweet  cadence  ; 

Sprightliest  in  the  dance 
Tripping  together — 

Such  a one  was  I once 
E’er  she  came  hither! 

Woe  was  me 
E’er  to  see 
Beauty  so  shining ; 

Ever  since,  hourly, 

Have  I been  pining  ! 

Loud  now  my  comrades  laugh 
As  I pass  by  them  ; 

Broadsword  and  quarter-stall-— 

No  more  I ply  them. 


the  van ; and 
of  admiration 
will  be  found 


308 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Coy  now  the  maidens  frown, 

W anting  their  dances ; 

How  can  their  faces  brown 
Win  one,  who  fancies 
Even  an  angel’s  face 
Hark  to  be  seen  would 
Be,  by  the  Lily-grace 

Gladd’ning  the  greenwood  ? 
Woe  was  me 
E’er  to  see 
Beauty  so  shining, 

Ever  since,  hourly, 

Have  I been  pining ! 

Wolf,  by  my  broken  bow 
Idle  is  lying, 

While  through  the  woods  I go, 
All  the  day,  sighing  ; 
Tracing  her  footsteps  small 
Through  the  moss’d  cover, 
Hiding  then,  breathless  all, 

At  the  sight  of  her, 

Lest  my  rude  gazing  should 
From  her  haunt  scare  her — 
Oh,  what  a solitude 

Wanting  her,  here  were ! 
Woe  was  me 
E’er  to  see 
Beauty  so  shining ; 

Ever  since,  hourly, 

Have  I been  pining ! 


THE  BRIDAL  WAKE. 

Gerald  Griffin-. 

The  priest  stood  at  the  marriage  boaid — 
The  marriage  cake  was  made, 

With  meat  the  marriage  chest  was  stored, 
Decked  was  the  marriage  bed. 

The  old  man  sat  beside  the  fire, 

The  mother  sat  by  him, 

The  white  bride  was  in  gay  attire, 

But  her  dark  eye  was  dim. 

Ululah ! Ululak ! 

The  night  falls  quick,  the  sun  is  set, 

Her  love  is  on  the  water  yet. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


soa 


I saw  a red  cloud  in  the  west, 

Against  the  morning  light, 

Heaven  shield  the  youth  that  she  loves  best 
From  evil  chance  to-night. 

The  door  flings  wide ! loud  moans  the  gale, 
Wild  fear  her  hosom  Alls, 

It  is,  it  is  the  Banshee’s  wail!* 

Over  the  darkened  hills. 

Ululah!  Ululah! 

The  day  is  past ! the  night  is  dark  ! 

The  waves  are  mounting  round  his  hark. 


The  guests  sit  round  the  bridal  bed, 

And  break  the  bridal  cake  ; 

But  they  sit  by  the  dead  man’s  head, 
And  hold  his  wedding  wake. 

The  bride  is  praying  in  her  room, 

The  place  is  silent  all ! 

A fearful  call ! a sudden  doom ! 

Bridal  and  funeral. 

Ululah!  Ululah! 
A youth  to  Kilfiehera’sf  ta’en, 

That  never  will  return  again. 


* The  Banshee  (bean-sighe) , she-fairy,  or  woman-fairy,  is  a spiritual  attendant  on  families 
of  ancient  Irish  descent,  only,  and  her  wail  prognosticates  the  death  of  some  one  of  the 
family.  Mr.  Crofton  Croker,  in  his  "Specimens  of  the  Keen  of  the  South  of  Ireland," 
printed  for  the  Percy  Society,  gives  some  verses,  translated  from  the  Irish,  illustrative  of 
the  subject. 


“ The  prosperous  Saxons 
Were  seized  with  affright. 
In  Tralee  they  packed  up. 
And  made  ready  for  flight. 
For  there  a shrill  voice 
At  the  door  of  each  hall 
Was  heard,  and  they  fancied 
Foretelling  their  fall. 


“At  Dingle  the  merchants 
In  terror  forsook 
Their  ships  and  their  business ; 

They  trembled  and  shook. 
Some  fled  to  concealment, — 
The  fools  thus  to  fly ! 

For  no  trader  a Banshee 
Will  utter  a cry.” 


The  last  verse  is  quoted,  as  Mr.  Croker  informs  us,  by  Dr.  O’Brien,  in  his  Irish  Dictionary, 
“ to  show  that  the  Banshee  is  solely  a spiritual  aristocratic  appendage."  The  verses  are 
from  a Keen  on  Maurice  Fitzgerald,  Knight  of  Kerry. 


t The  name  of  a churchyard  near  Kilkee. 


310 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


THE  CONVICT  OF  CLONMELL. 

Translated  from  the  Irish  by  J.  J.  Callanan. 

Our  sympathies  are  strongly  stirred  by  this  ballad  in  favour  of  the  convict.  The  contrast 
between  his  thraldom  and  the  liberty  and  sports  he  pines  after  is  very  dramatic.  In  every 
country  where  death  or  imprisonment  is  inflicted  for  political  offences  there  is  always  great 
general  commiseration  for  the  condemned.  Such  has  been  the  case  in  Ireland.  Such  is 
the  case  in  Italy;  and  that  fact  makes  Italy,  at  this  moment,  an  object  of  European  interest. 

How  hard  is  my  fortune, 

And  vain  my  repining ! 

The  strong  rope  of  fate 

For  this  young  neck  is  twining. 

My  strength  is  departed  ; 

My  cheek  sunk  and  sallow ; 

While  I languish  in  chains, 

In  the  gaol  of  Cloninala.* 

No  hoy  in  the  village 
W as  ever  yet  milder  ; 

I’d  play  with  a child, 

And  my  sport  would  be  wilder  j 
I’d  dance  without  tiring 
From  morning  till  even, 

And  the  goal-hall  I’d  strike* 

To  the  lightning  of  heaven. 

At  my  bed-foot  decaying 
My  hurlbat  is  lying, 

Through  the  boys  of  village 
My  goal-ball  is  flying ; 

My  horse  ’mong  the  neighbours 
Neglected  may  fallow, — 

While  I pine  in  my  chains, 

In  the  gaol  of  Clonmala. 

Next  Sunday  the  patron 
At  home  will  be  keeping, 

And  the  young  active  hurlers 
The  field  will  be  sweeping  ,* 

With  the  dance  of  fair  maidens 
The  evening  they’ll  hallow, 

While  this  heart,  once  so  gay, 

Shall  lie  cold  in  Clonmala. 

* Cluan-meala— the  sweet  retreat ; literally,  the  recess  of  boney. 

t The  goal-ball  is  that  employed  in  the  game  of  hurling,  a pastime  of  universal  practice 
throughout  Ireland,  and  one  demanding  great  activity,  and  giving  occasion  for  the  exercise 
not  only  of  agility,  but  strength ; hence  the  prisoner’s  boast  of  the  height  to  which  he  would 
drive  the  ball. 

X Keeping  the  patron  (pronounced  by  the  peasantry  pattern ) means  the  observance  of  a 
patron  saint’s  day. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


311 


A SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG. 

J.  F.  Waeleb,  LL.D. 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning  ; 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning ; 

Bent  o’er  the  fire  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting, 

Is  croning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knitting — 

“Eileen,  achora,  I hear  some  one  tapping.” — 

“ ’Tis  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass  flapping.” 

“ Eileen,  I surely  hear  somebody  sighing.” — 

“’Tis  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer  wind  dying.” 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot’s  stirring ; 
Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

“ What’s  that  noise  that  I hear  at  the  window,  I wonder  ?” — 

“ ’Tis  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush  under.” 

“What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  your  stool  on, 

And  singing  all  wrong  that  old  song  of  ‘The  Coolun’  ?” — 
There’s  a form  at  the  casement — the  form  of  her  true-love — 
And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  “ I’m  waiting  for  you,  love ; 
Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step  lightly, 

We’ll  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon’s  shining  brightly.” 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot’s  stirring; 
Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays  her  fingers, 

Steals  up  from  the  seat — longs  to  go,  and  yet  lingers  ; 

A frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grandmother ; 

Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel  with  the  other. 
Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round ; 

Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel’s  sound ; 

Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 

The  maid  steps — then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

Slower — and  slower — and  slower  the  wheel  swings  ; 

Lower — and  lower — and  lower  the  reel  rings  ; 

Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stopped  their  ringing  and  moving, 
Thro’  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moonlight  are  roving. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Samuel  Ferguson-,  M.R.I.A. 

This  collection  of  songs  is  much,  enriched  by  many  admirable  translations  from  the  Irish 
by  Mr.  Ferguson.  And  why  are  Mr.  Ferguson’s  translations  so  good  ? — Because  he  is  a poet 
himself.  His  original  productions  given  in  this  volume,  prove,  however,  that  though  his 
merits  are  great  in  currying  up  another  man’s  Pegasus,  he  is  always  greatest  in  riding  his 
own  horse.  His  “ Forester’s  Complaint”  is  of  great  beauty,  and  the  following  noble  Ode  has 
already  achieved  so  high  a reputation,  that  any  notice  of  mine  would  be  impertinent,  further 
than  to  thank  the  author,  as  I do,  for  all  the  pleasure  I have  derived,  “ over  and  over  again,” 
from  its  varied  beauties ; its  vigour  and  tenderness — from  the  truthful  minuteness  of  open- 
ing detail,  to  the  final  breadth  of  treatment — while,  between  those  two  points,  a fertility  of 
illustrated  imagery  is  exhibited,  as  rapid  and  as  telling  as  the  blows  of  his  own  anchorsmiths. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin’s  anchor  forged — ’tis  at  a white  heat  now : 

The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased — tho’  on  the  forge’s  brow 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  thro’  the  sable  mound, 

And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking  round, 

All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only  hare — 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the  windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle-chains,  the  black  mound  heaves 
below, 

And  red  and  deep  a hundred  veins  hurst  out  at  every  throe  : 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


313 


It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — 0,  Yulcan,  what  a glow! 

’Tis  blinding  white,  ’tis  blasting  bright — the  high  sun  shines  not  so ! 
The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery  fearful  show ; 

The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy  lurid  row 
Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before  the  foe. 

As,  quivering  thro’  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing  monster,  slow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil — all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow. 

“Hurrah!”  they  shout,  “leap  out — leap  out;”  bang,  bang  the 
sledges  go : 

Hurrah ! the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high  and  low — 

A hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing  blow, 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail,  the  rattling  cinders  strow 
The  ground  around : at  every  bound  the  sweltering  fountains  flow, 
And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd  at  every  stroke  pant  “ ho  !” 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters  ; leap  out  and  lay  on  load  ! 

Let’s  forge  a goodly  anchor — a bower  thick  and  broad  ; 

For  a heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I bode, 

And  I see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a perilous  road — 

The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee — the  roll  of  ocean  pour’d 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea  : the  mainmast  by  the  board ; 

The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove  at  the  chains  ! 
But  courage  still,  brave  mariners — the  bower  yet  remains, 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  when  ye  pitch  sky  high  ; 
Then  moves  his  head,  as  tho’  he  said,  “ Fear  nothing — here  am  I.” 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand  keep  time  ; 

Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  steeple’s  chime. 

But,  while  you  sling  your  sledges,  sing — and  let  the  burthen  be, 

The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and  royal  craftsmen  we  ! 

Strike  in,  strike  in — the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  rustling  red  ; 

Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will  soon  be  sped ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery  rich  array, 

Foi  a hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch  of  clay  ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry  craftsmen  here, 

For  the  yeo-heave-o’,  and  the  heave-away,  and  the  sighing  seaman’s 
cheer  ; 

"When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go — far,  far  from  love  and  home  ; 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a row,  wail  o’er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  down  at  last ; 

A shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e’er  from  cat  was  cast. 

0 trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me, 

What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep  green  sea  ! 

0 deep  Sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights  as  thou  ? 

The  hoary-monster’s  palaces  ! methinks  what  joy  ’t  were  now 
To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of  the  whales, 

And  feel  the  churn’d  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their  scourging  tails! 

15 


314 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea  nnicorn, 

And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his  ivory  horn  ; 

To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn  ; 

And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark  to  laugh  his  jaws  to  scorn  : — 

To  leap  down  on  the  kraken’s  back,  where  ’mid  Norwegian  isles 
He  lies,  a lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallow’d  miles, 

’Till,  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls  ; 

Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffetting  the  far  astonished  shoals 
Of  his  back-browsing  ocean-calves ; or,  haply  in  a cove, 

Sliell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine’s  love, 

To  find  the  long -hair’d  mermaidens  ; or,  hard  by  icy  lands, 

To  wrestle  with  the  Sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 

0 broad-armed  Fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can  equal  thine  ? 

The  Dolphin  weighs  a thousand  tons,  that  tugs  thy  cable  line  ; 

And  night  by  night,  ’tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by  day, 

Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game  to  play — 

But  shamer  of  our  little  sports  ! forgive  the  name  I gave — 

A fisher’s  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to  save. 

0 lodger  in  the  sea-kings’  halls,  couldst  thou  but  understand 
Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  that  dripping  band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  about  thee  bend, 

With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a dream  blessing  their  ancient  friend — 
Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger  steps  round 
thee, 

Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride ; thou’dst  leap  within  the  sea! 

Give  honour  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant  strand, 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  Father-land — 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  church-yard  grave, 

So  freely,  for  a restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave — 

Oh,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I have  fondly  sung, 

Honour  him  for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes  among  I 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS, 


315 


THE  WAKE  OF  THE  ABSENT. 

Gerald  Griffin. 

It  is  a custom  among  the  peasantry  in  some  parts  of  Ireland,  when  any  member  of  a 
family  has  been  lost  at  sea  (or  in  any  other  way  which  renders  the  performance  of  the 
customary  funeral  rite  impossible),  to  celebrate  the  “ wake,”  exactly  in  the  same  way  as  if 
the  corpse  were  actually  present. 

The  dismal  yew,  and  cypress  tall, 

Wave  o’er  the  churchyard  lone, 

Where  rest  our  friends  and  fathers  all, 

Beneath  the  funeral  stone. 

Un vexed  in  holy  ground  they  sleep, 

Oh,  early  lost ! o’er  thee 
No  sorrowing  friend  shall  ever  weep, 

Nor  stranger  bend  the  knee, 

Mo  Chuma  /*  lorn  am  I! 

Hoarse  dashing  rolls  the  salt  sea  wave, 

Over  our  perished  darling’s  grave — 

The  winds  the  sullen  deep  that  tore, 

His  death-song  chanted  loud, 

The  weeds  that  line  the  clifted  shore 
Were  all  his  burial  shroud. 

For  friendly  wail  and  holy  dirge, 

And  long  lament  of  love, 

Around  him  roared  the  angry  surge, 

The  curlew  screamed  above, 

Mo  Chuma  ! lorn  am  I ! 

My  grief  would  turn  to  rapture  now, 

Might  I but  touch  that  pallid  brow. 

The  stream-born  bubbles  soonest  burst 
That  earliest  left  the  source : 

Buds  earliest  blown  are  faded  first, 

In  nature’s  wonted  course : 

With  guarded  pace  her  seasons  creep, 

By  slow  decay  expire  ; 

The  youDg  above  the  aged  weep, 

The  son  above  the  sire  : 

Mo  Chuma ! lorn  am  I ! 

That  death  a backward  course  should  hold, 

To  smite  the  young,  and  spare  the  old. 

* Mo  Chuma — My  grief ; or,  woe  is  me ! 


316 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


GRACE  NUGENT. 

Carolan.  Translated  by  Samuel  Ferguson,  M.R.LA. 

Brightest  blossom  of  the  spring, 

Grace,  the  sprightly  girl,  I sing ; 

Grace  who  bore  the  palm  of  mind 
From  all  the  rest  of  womankind : 

Whomsoe’er  the  fates  decree, 

Happy  fate  for  life  to  be, 

Day  and  night  my  Coolun*  near, 

Ache  or  pain  need  never  fear. 

Her  neck  outdoes  the  stately  swan, 

Her  radiant  face  the  summer  dawn ; 

Ah,  happy  thrice  the  youth  for  whom 
The  fates  design  that  branch  of  bloom  ! 

Pleasant  are  your  words  benign, 

Rich  those  azure  eyes  of  thine ; 

Ye  who  see  my  queen,  beware 
Those  twisted  links  of  golden  hair  ! 

* Coolun  means  a fine  head  of  hair,  and  the  term  is  often  used  as  one  of  endearment. 
The  Irish  bards  loved  to  praise  fine  hair  (for  which,  by  the  way,  the  Irish  are  remark- 
able), both  in  poetry  and  music.  There  is  a sweet  Irish  air,  called  “Nancy  of  the  brandling 
tresses.” 

Hardiman,  in  his  “ Irish  Minstrelsy,”  remarks  that  “ our  Irish  poets,  like  the  Arabians, 
have  delighted  in  description  of  female  hair,” — and  he  alludes  to  Byron,  in  his  “ Giaour,” 
maintaining  the  oriental  character  of  his  poem  by  celebrating  the  beauty  of  his  heroine’s 
hair— 

“ Her  hair  in  hyacinthian  flow, 

When  left  to  roll  its  folds  below; 

As  midst  her  handmaids  in  the  hall 
She  stood  superior  to  them  all ; 

Hath  swept  the  marble  where  her  feet 
Gleamed  whiter  than  the  mountain  sleet, 

Ere  from  the  cloud  that  gave  it  birth 
It  fell  and  caught  one  stain  of  earth.” 

Hardiman  gives  a further  example  of  this  Arabian  admiration  by  quoting  a translation 
from  the  Arabic  by  Professor  Carlyle — 

“ Thro’  midnight  gloom  my  Leila  stray’d. 

Her  ebon  locks  around  her  play’d; 

So  dark  they  waved — so  black  they  curl’d. 

Another  night  o’erspread  the  world.” 

Pretty  well  for  dark  hair !— But  our  Irish  bards  are  not  easily  outdone ; and  here  is  one 
who  thus  celebrates  the  blackness  of  his  mistress’s  hair,  even  at  the  risk  of  wounding  “ears 
polite — 

“Your  talk  is  so  quare, 

And  your  sweet  curly  hair 
Is  as  black  as.  the  Divil.” 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


317 


This  is  what  I fain  would  say 
To  the  bird- voiced  lady  gayf — 

Never  yet  conceived  the  heart 
Joy  that  Grace  cannot  impart : 

Fold  of  jewels,  case  of  pearls  ! 

Coolun  of  the  circling  curls ! 

More  I say  not,  but  no  less 
Drink  your  health  and  happiness. 

t This  “bird-voiced  lady”  (how  sweet  the  epithet !)  was  a fair  daughter  of  the  Nugent  of 
Castle  Nugent,  Columbre.  By  the  way,  I knew  a certain  bird-voiced  lady,  who,  in  giving 
evidence  before  a magistrate  on  the  subject  of  a burglary,  complained  that,  on  hearing  the 
thieves  in  the  house,  she  opened  a window,  and  called  for  “ the  watch,”  but  they  neglected 
her  call.  “Madam,”  said  the  gallant  magistrate,  “I  suppose  they  mistook  your  call  for  the 
voice  of  the  nightingale.” 


SONG  OF  THE  STItEAMS. 

Mrs.  Downing. 

We’re  rushing,  we’re  rushing, 
All  freely  and  bright ; 

The  sunbeam  is  flushing 
Our  waves  with  its  light ; 


318 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Oh ! long  the  dark  winter 
In  ice  chains  hath  bound  us, 

But  now  the  fair  hand 

Of  the  spring  tide  is  round  us.# 

We’re  glancing  away, 

From  the  height  of  the  mountain 
We’re  leaving  our  spray, 

On  the  calm  valley  fountain  ; 

Through  the  depth  of  the  glen, 

In  the  shade  of  the  woods, 

We’re  murmuring  our  music, 

And  mingling  our  hoods. 

We’re  sparkling  along, 

Over  granite  and  green  ; 

We’re  heard  but  in  song, 

And,  in  light,  we  are  seen ; 

The  brushwood  is  stemming, 

Our  tides  as  they  flow ; 

And  the  young  flowers  are  gemming, 

Wherever  we  go. 

Hark  to  the  sounds 
Of  our  waters  afar, 

As  they  break  through  the  bounds 
Where  the  wild  willows  are  ; 

Oh  ! fresh  from  the  chain 
Of  the  winter  wind  gushing, 

In  the  beauty  of  spring  tide, 

We’re  rushing,  we’re  rushing! 

* Goethe,  in  “ Faustus,”  employs  a pleasing  image  to  indicate  the  action  of  Spring  in 
overcoming  the  power  of  Winter. 

“ The  warm  and  vivifying  glance  of  Spring 
Has  melted  the  cold  fetters  of  the  brooks .” 


GLENFINNISHK. 

Joseph  O’Leaet. 

Glenfinnishk,*  where  thy  waters  mix  with  Arraglen’s  wild  tide, 
’Tis  sweet,  at  hush  of  evening,  to  wander  by  thy  side  ! 

’Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  night- winds  sigh  along  Macrona’s  wood, 
And  mingle  their  wild  music  with  the  murmur  of  thy  flood ! 

* Glenfmnishk  (the  glen  of  the  fair  waters),  in  the  county  of  Cork. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS.  319 

’Tis  sweet,  when  in  the  deep  blue  vault  the  morn  is  shining  bright, 
To  watch  where  thy  clear  waters  are  breaking  into  light ; 

To  mark  the  starry  sparks  that  o’er  thy  smoother  surface  gleam, 
As  if  some  fairy  hand  were  flinging  diamonds  on  thy  stream ! 

Oh ! if  departed  spirits  e’er  to  this  dark  world  return, 

’Tis  in  some  lonely,  lovely  spot  like  this  they  would  sojourn ; 
Whate’er  their  mystic  rites  may  he,  no  human  eye  is  here, 

Save  mine,  to  mark  their  mystery — no  human  voice  is  near. 

At  such  an  hour,  in  such  a scene,  I could  forget  my  birth — 

I could  forget  I e’er  have  been,  or  am,  a thing  of  earth ; 

Shake  off  the  fleshly  bonds  that  hold  my  soul  in  thrall,  and  be 
Even  like  themselves,  a spirit,  as  boundless  and  as  free ! 

Ye  shadowy  race ! if  we  believe  the  tales  of  legends  old, 

Ye  sometimes  hold  high  converse  with  those  of  mortal  mould : 

Oh ! come,  whilst  now  my  soul  is  free,  and  bear  me  in  your  train, 
Ne’er  to  return  to  misery  and  this  dark  world  again ! 


THE  TWISTING  OF  THE  HOPE.* 

Translated  from  the  Irish,  by  E.  Walsh. 

What  mortal  conflict  drove  me  here  to  roam, 

Though  many  a maid  I’ve  left  behind  at  home ; 

Forth  from  the  house  where  dwelt  my  heart’s  dear  hope, 

I was  turned  by  the  hag  at  the  twisting  of  the  rope  ! 

If  thou  be  mine,  be  mine  both  day  and  night, 

If  thou  be  mine,  be  mine  in  all  men’s  sight, 

If  thou  be  mine,  be  mine  o’er  all  beside — 

And  oh,  that  thou  wert  now  my  wedded  bride  I 

In  Sligo  first  I did  my  love  behold, 

In  Galway  town  I spent  with  her  my  gold — 

But  by  this  hand,  if  thus  they  me  pursue, 

I’ll  teach  these  dames  to  dance  a measure  new ! 

This  song  is  of  no  intrinsic  value,  but  becomes  interesting  from  the  following  note 
appended  to  it  by  the  translator : — 

* “ This  is  said  to  be  the  original  song  composed  to  that  delightful  tune,  * The  Twisting 
of  the  Rope.’  Tradition  thus  speaks  of  its  origin.  A Connaught  harper  having  once  put 
up  at  the  residence  of  a rich  farmer,  began  to  pay  such  attentions  to  the  young  woman  of 
the  house  as  greatly  displeased  her  mother,  who  instantly  conceived  a plan  for  the  sum* 


320 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


mary  ejectment  of  the  minstrel.  She  provided  some  hay,  and  requested  the  harper  to  twist- 
the  rope  which  she  set  about  making.  As  the  work  progressed  and  the  rope  lengthened, 
the  harper,  of  course,  retired  backward,  till  he  went  beyond  the  door  of  the  dwelling,  when 
the  crafty  matron  suddenly  shut  the  door  ir^  his  face,  and  then  threw  his  harp  out  at  the 
window.  The  version  sung  in  the  south  of  Ireland  has  some  additional  stanzas,  but  I give 
the  song  as  it  is  found  in  Hardiman’s  * Minstrelsy,’  vol.  i.,  where  it  is  left  untranslated.” 


FOR  I AM  DESOLATE. 


Gerald  Griffin-. 

The  Christmas  light*  is  burning  bright 
In  many  a village  pane, 

And  many  a cottage  rings  to-night 
With  many  a merry  strain. 

Young  hoys  and  girls  run  laughing  by. 
Their  hearts  and  eyes  elate  ; 

I can  hut  think  on  mine,  and  sigh, 

For  I am  desolate ! 

There’s  none  to  watch  in  our  old  cot 
Beside  the  holy  light, 

No  tongue  to  bless  the  silent  spot 
Against  the  parting  night,  f 

I’ve  closed  the  door,  and  hither  come 
To  mourn  my  lonely  fate  ; 

I cannot  hear  my  own  old  home, 

It  is  so  desolate  ! 

I saw  my  father’s  eyes  grow  dim, 

And  clasp’d  my  mother’s  knee ; 

I saw  my  mother  follow  him, 

My  husband  wept  with  me. 

My  husband  did  not  long  remain, 

His  child  was  left  me  yet ; 

But  now  my  heart’s  last  love  is  slain, 
And  I am  desolate ! 


* At  sunset  on  Christmas  eve,  in  Irish  houses,  a large  candle  is  lighted,  which  it  Is  a 
kind  of  impiety  to  snuff,  touch,  or  use  for  any  ordinary  purpose. 

t It  is  the  custom  in  Irish  Catholic  families  to  sit  up  till  midnight  on  Christmas  eve,  in 
order  to  join  ip  the  devotion  of  the  midnight  mass.  One  of  Carleton’s  powerful  tales  is 
founded  oq  this  custom,  and  is  entitled  The  Midnight 


BOATMAN’S  HYMN. 

From  the  Irish.  Translated  by  Samuel  Ferguson-,  M.R.I.A, 

There  are  other  translations  of  this  fine  old  Irish  burst  of  poetry,  but  Mr.  Ferguson's  is 
incomparably  the  best. 

Bark  that  bears  me  through  foam  and  squall, 

Y ou  in  the  storm  are  my  castle  wall ; 

Though  the  sea  should  redden  from  bottom  to  top, 

From  tiller  to  mast  she  takes  no  drop. 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top, 

Wherry  aroon,  * my  land  and  store  ! 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top, 

She  is  the  boat  can  sail  go-leor .f 

She  dresses  herself,  and  goes  gliding  on, 

Like  a dame  in  her  robes  of  the  Indian  lawn  ; 

For  God  has  blessed  her,  gunnel  and  wale — 

And  oh ! if  you  saw  her  stretch  out  to  the  gale, 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top,  &c. 

Whillan.,|  ahoy  ! old  heart  of  stone, 

Stooping  so  black  o’er  the  beach  alone, 

Answer  me  well — On  the  bursting  brine 
Saw  you  ever  a hark  like  mine  ? 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top,  &c. 

♦ “ Aroon”  is  a term  of  endearment. 

t The  Irish  go-leor,  in  this  place,  may  find  its  equivalent  in  the  English  phrase,  “ Enough 
end  to  spare.” 

X The  name  of  a rock  in  Blacksod  Bay.  This  shows  the  poem  to  be  of  Sligo  origin. 

15* 


822 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Says  Whillan — Since  first  I was  made  of  stone, 

I have  looked  abroad  o’er  the  beach  alone — 

But,  till  to-day,  on  the  bursting  brine 
Saw  I never  a bark  like  thine ! 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top,  &e. 

God  of  the  air  ! the  seamen  thout 
When  they  see  ns  tossing  the  brine  about : 

Give  us  the  shelter  of  strand  or  rock, 

Or  through  and  through  us  she  goes  with  a shock ! 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top,  &c. 

How  full  of  spirit,  how  descriptive,  how  exulting  is  this  fine  burst,  which  I should 
suppose  to  belong  to  an  early  period,  from  the  antique  outline  about  it.  The  appeal  to  the 
rock — and  the  rock  echoing,  as  it  were,  an  answer  nearly  in  the  words  in  which  it  was 
addressed — is  quite  oriental  in  its  character,  indicating  the  source  of  the  Irish  language. 
In  the  last  verse,  the  fear  the  boat  inspires  in  all  who  lie  in  her  track,  that  she  will  go 
“ through  and  through  ” them,  partakes  also  of  eastern  hyperbole.  This  would  have  been 
just  the  boat  for  “ Barny  O’Reirdon,” — if  I may  be  allowed  to  allude  to  him — when  he 
cautioned  all  before  him  to  “get  out  of  his  nor’east  coorse  ! ” 


SONG. 

From  “ The  Bucaneer.” 

Mrs.  S.  C.  IIall. 

Here,  again,  a poetical  trifle  enables  the  editor  to  enrich  his  pages  with  a name  more 
noted  in  prose  than  verse;  a name  holding  a distinguished  place  in  the  literature  of 
Ireland;  and  while  the  works  of  Mrs.  Hall  are  as  amusing  as  those  of  most  authors,  she 
contrives  to  make  them  useful  also.  Many  a piece  of  good  advice  is  given  to  the  people  of 
her  native  land,  many  an  incentive  to  self-reliance,  and  industry,  and  prudence ; but  done 
so  gently,  in  a spirit  so  sweet  and  womanly,  that  it  never  offends ; and  while  she  exposes 
errors  that  lie  on  the  surface  of  Irish  character,  she  never  forgets  to  represent  the  many 
excellent  qualities  that  lie  deeper.  Some  of  her  tales  of  the  Irish  peasantry  are  exquisitely 
touching — sunny  and  shadowy,  like  the  people  themselves.  I have  already,  in  a previous 
brief  allusion,  spoken  of  Mrs.  Hall  as  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  Ireland’s  daughters,  and 
borne  witness  to  her  name  being  celebrated  abroad  and  beloved  at  home. 

O’er  the  clear  quiet  waters 

My  gondola  glides, 

And  gently  it  wakens 
The  slumbering  tides, 

All  nature  is  waiting 
Beneath  and  above, 

While  earth  and  while  heaven 
Are  breathing  of  love ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


323 


In  vain  are  they  breathing, 

Earth — heaven — to  me, 

Though  their  beauty  and  calmness 
Are  whispers  of  thee, 

For  the  bright  sky  must  darken, 
The  earth  must  be  grey, 

Ere  the  deep  gloom  that  saddens 
My  soul  pass  away ! 

But  see,  the  last  day  -beam 
Grows  pale — ere  it  die, 

And  the  dark  clouds  are  passing 
All  over  the  sky, 

I hear  thy  light  footsteps, 

Thy  fair  form  I see — 

Ah ! the  twilight  has  told  thee 
Who  watches  for  thee ! 


THE  LEAVES  SO  GREEN. 

"When  life  hath  left  this  senseless  clay, 

By  all  but  thee  forgot ; 

Oh  ! bear  me,  dearest,  far  away, 

To  some  green  lonely  spot : 

Where  none  with  careless  step  may  tread 
The  grass  upon  my  grave, 

But  gently  o’er  my  narrow  bed 
“ The  leaves  so  green  ” may  wave. 

The  wild  flowers,  too,  I loved  so  well, 

Shall  breathe  their  sweetness  there, 

While  thrush  and  blackbird’s  songs  shall  swell 
Amid  the  fragrant  air. 

No  noisy  burst  of  joy  or  woe 
Will  there  disturb  my  rest, 

But  silent  tears  in  secret  flow 
From  those  who  loved  me  best. 

The  crowded  town  and  haunts  of  men 
I never  loved  to  tread, 

To  sheltered  vale  or  lonely  glen 
My  weary  spirit  fled. 

There  lay  me,  dearest,  far  away, 

By  other  eyes  unseen, 

Where  gleams  of  sunshine  rarely  stray, 
Beneath  “the  leaves  so  green.” 


324 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


NED  OF  THE  HILL. 

From  “Songs  and  Ballads,”  by  Samuel  Lover. 

Many  legends  are  extant  of  this  romantic  minstrel  freebooter,  whose  predatory  achieve- 
ments sometimes  extended  to  the  hearts  of  the  gentle  sex. 

Dark  is  the  evening,  and  silent  the  hour, 

Who  is  the  minstrel  by  yonder  lone  tower  ? 

His  harp  all  so  tenderly  touching  with  skill ; 

Oh,  who  should  it  he,  but  Ned  of  the  Hill  ? 

WTho  sings,  “ lady  love,  come  to  me  now, 

Come  and  live  merrily  under  the  bough, 

And  I’ll  pillow  thy  head, 

Where  the  fairies  tread, 

If  thou  wilt  but  wed  with  Ned  of  the  Hill ! ” 

Ned  of  the  Hill  has  no  castle  nor  hall, 

Nor  spearmen  nor  bowmen  to  come  at  his  call ; 

But  one  little  archer,  of  exquisite  skill, 

Has  shot  a bright  shaft  for  Ned  of  the  Hill, 

Who  sings,  “ lady  love,  come  to  me  now, 

Come  and  live  merrily  under  the  bough, 

And  I’ll  pillow  thy  head, 

Where  the  fairies  tread, 

If  thou  wilt  but  wed  with  Ned  of  the  Hill ! ” 

’Tis  hard  to  escape  from  that  fair  lady’s  bower, 

For  high  is  the  window,  and  guarded  the  tower ; 

11  But  there’s  always  a way  where  there  is  a will” 

So  Ellen  is  off  with  Ned  of  the  Hill ! 

Who  sings,  “ lady  love,  thou  art  mine  now  ! 

We  will  live  merrily  under  the  bough, 

And  I’ll  pillow  thy  head, 

Where  the  fairies  tread, 

For  Ellen  is  wed  to  Ned  of  the  Hill ! ” 

I am  sorry  to  say  the  termination  of  the  love  suit,  pictured  in  this  ballad,  was  not  so 
happy  as  imagination  framed  it.  After  the  warmth  of  fiction,  here  is  the  coldness  of 
reality.  Edmond  O’Ryan  was  the  name  of  this  minstrel  outlaw,  familiarly  known  as  “ Ned 
of  the  Hill.”  His  memory  is  still  affectionately  cherished  by  the  Irish  peasant,  in  song  and 
legend.  He  has  a double  claim  to  the  affections  of  a warm-hearted  and  imaginative  people : — 
he  was  a martyr  and  a minstrel.  He  lost  his  property  by  following  the  fortunes  of  the 
Stuarts,  and  became  an  outlaw  chieftain ; and  it  would  seem  that  upon  this  change  of 
fortune,  he  was  forsaken  by  the  lady  of  his  love,  if  we  may  judge  from  a passionate  strain 
of  complaint  he  pours  forth  in  his  own  native  Irish.  But  in  all  this  plaint,  and  a long  one 
too,  he  never  laments  his  loss  of  property.  No ; the  loss  of  that  false  woman’s  heart  was  his 
only  regret : there  is  something  excessively  touching  in  this.  The  original  Irish  poem  is 
called  “ Edmond  O’Ryan’s  Love  Elegy,”  and  has  been  admirably  translated  by  Miss  Brooke ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


325 


but,  though  every  verse  is  beautiful,  it  is  too  long  for  insertion  at  length  here,  and  only  a 
few  lines  and  verses  are  given.  One  stanza  justifies  my  own  line 
**  We  will  live  merrily  under  the  bough.” 

For  Edmond  himself  says,  more  elaborately,  that,  if  his  love  were  with  him — 

“ Sweet  would  seem  the  holly  shade, 

Bright  the  clustering  berries  growing ; 

And,  in  scented  bloom  array’d, 

Apple  blossoms  * round  us  blowing.” 

He  thus  passionately  describes  his  feelings  upon  being  deserted— 

“ 0,  sickness  past  all  medicine’s  art, — 

0 sorrow  every  grief  exceeding, 

0 wound  that  in  my  breaking  heart. 

Cureless,  deep,  to  death  art  bleeding.” 

He  then  apostrophizes  the  nightingale,  and  exclaims — 

“ Mine,  0 hapless  bird,  thy  fate ! 

The  plunder’d  nest,  the  lonely  sorrow ! 

The  lost,  the  lov’d  harmonious  mate  1 
The  wailing  night — the  cheerless  morrow.” 

This,  I think,  must  be  acknowledged  as  very  pathetic,  particularly  in  the  second  line : — 
there  is  something  almost  painfully  expressive  of  bereavement  and  desolation  in 
“ The  plunder’d  nest— the  lonely  sorrow. 

Finally,  notwithstanding  his  wrongs,  he  says,  with  a devotedness  that  deserved  a better 
requital — 

“ Still  my  heart  its  faith  shall  prove. 

And  its  last  sigh  shall  breathe  to  bless  thee !” 

* The  frequency  of  allusion  to  the  apple  blossom  is  remarkable  in  the  poetry  of  the 
native  Irish. 


• 

THE  DAWNING  OF  THE  DAY. 

At  early  dawn  I once  had  been 
Where  Lene’s*  blue  waters  How, 
When  summer  bid  the  groves  be  green, 
The  lamp  of  light  to  glow — 

As  on  by  bower,  and  town,  and  tower, 
And  wide-spread  fields  I stray, 

I meet  a maid  in  the  greenwood  shade, 
At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

Her  feet  and  beauteous  head  were  hare, 
No  mantle  fair  she  wore, 

But  down  her  waist  fell  golden  hair 
That  swept  the  tall  grass  o’er  ; 

With  milking-pail  she  sought  the  vale, 
And  bright  her  charms’  display, 
Outshining  far  the  morning  star, 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day ! 

* Lene , Killamey. 


326 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Beside  me  sat  that  maid  divine, 

Where  grassy  hanks  outspread — 

“ Oh,  let  me  call  thee  ever  mine, 

Dear  maid,”  I sportive  said. 

“ False  man,  for  shame,  why  bring  me  blame  ?” 

She  cried,  and  burst  away — 

The  sun’s  first  light  pursued  her  flight, 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day  ! 

This  “ dawning  of  the  day  ” is  a favourite  refrain  to  Irish  songs.  I have  heard  such  in 
some  variety,  and  a “ milking-pail  ” is  always  present  in  them.  One  of  my  earliest  remem- 
brances is  hearing  my  nurse  sing  such  a song,  and  the  refrain,  throughout,  of  that  song 
was  wed  to  the  milking-pail  in  this  couplet, 

“ With  her  milking-pail  all  in  her  hand 
At  the  dawning  of  the  day.” 

The  melody  to  which  this  song  is  sung  is  very  sweet. 


DESERTER’S  MEDITATION. 

**  As  Mr.  Curran  was  travelling  upon  an  unfrequented  road,  he  perceived  a man  in  a 
soldier’s  dress  sitting  by  the  road  side,  and  apparently  much  exhausted  by  fatigue  and 
agitation.  He  invited  him  to  take  a seat  in  his  chaise,  and  soon  discovered  that  he  was  a 
deserter.  Having  stopt  at  a small  inn  for  refreshment,  Mr.  Curran  observed  to  the  soldier 
that  he  had  committed  an  offence  of  which  the  penalty  was  death,  and  that  his  chance  of 
escaping  it  was  but  small:  “Tell  me,  then  (continued  he),  whether  you  feel  disposed  to 
pass  the  little  remnant  of  life  that  is  left  you  in  penitence  and  fasting,  or  whether  you 
would  prefer  to  drown  your  sorrow  in  a merry  glass  ?”  The  following  is  the  deserter’s 
answer,  which  Mr.  Curran,  in  composing  it,  adapted  to  a plaintive  Irish  air.” — Life  of 
Curran  by  his  son,  TV.  H.  Curran. 

If  sadly  thinking,  with  spirits  sinking, 

Could  more  than  drinking  my  cares  compose, 

A cure  for  sorrow  from  sigbs  I’d  borrow, 

And  hope  to-morrow  would  end  my  woes. 

But  as  in  wailing  there’s  nought  availing, 

And  Death  unfailing  will  strike  the  blow, 

Then  for  that  reason,  and  for  a season, 

Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go ! 

To  joy  a stranger,  a way-worn  ranger, 

In  ev’ry  danger  my  course  I’ve  run 
Now  hope  all  ending,  and  Death  befriending, 

His  last  aid  lending,  my  cares  are  done : 

No  more  a rover,  or  hapless  lover, 

My  griefs  are  over — my  glass  runs  low 
Then  for  that  reason,  and  for  a season, 

Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


327 


MARGREAD  NI  CHEALLEADH. 

Edwabd  Walsh. 

This  ballad  is  founded  on  the  story  of  Daniel  O’Keeffe,  an  outlaw  famous  in  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  county  of  Cork,  where  his  name  is  still  associated  with  several  localities.  It  is 
related  that  O’Keeffe’s  beautiful  mistress,  Margaret  Kelly,  ( Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh), 
tempted  by  a large  reward,  undertook  to  deliver  him  into  the  hands  of  the  English  soldiers; 
but  O’Keeffe  having  discovered  in  her  possession  a document  revealing  her  perfidy,  in  a 
frenzy  of  indignation  stabbed  her  to  the  heart  with  his  skian.  He  lived  in  the  time  of 
William  III.,  and  is  represented  to  have  been  a gentleman  and  a poet. — Author’s  note. 

At  the  dance  in  the  village 
Thy  white  foot  was  fleetest ; 

Thy  voice  mid  the  concert 
Of  maidens  was  sweetest ; 

The  swell  of  thy  white  breast 
Made  rich  lovers  follow ; 

And  thy  raven  hair  bound  them, 

Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 

Thy  neck  was,  lost  maid  ! 

Than  the  ceanabhan*  whiter; 

And  the  glow  of  thy  cheek 
Than  the  monadant  brighter : 

But  death’s  chain  hath  bound  thee 
Thine  eye’s  glazed  and  hollow 

That  shone  like  a sun-burst, 

Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 

No  more  shall  mine  ear  drink 
Thy  melody  swelling ; 

Nor  thy' beamy  eye  brighten 
The  outlaw’s  dark  dwelling ; 

Or  thy  soft  heaving  bosom 
My  destiny  hallow, 

With  thy  twining  arms  round  me, 

Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh.  • 

The  moss  couch  1 brought  thee 
To-day  from  the  mountain, 

Has  drank  the  last  drop 

Of  thy  young  heart’s  red  fountain, 

• A plant  found  in  bogs,  the  top  of  which  bears  a substance  resembling  cotton,  and  as 
white  as  snow. 

t The  monadan  is  a red  berry,  growing  on  an  humble  creeping  plant  found  on  wild 
marshy  mountains. 


328 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


For  this  good  skian\  beside  me 
Struck  deep  and  rung  hollow 
In  thy  bosom  of  treason, 

Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 

With  strings  of  rich  pearls 
Thy  white  neck  was  laden, 

And  thy  lingers  with  spoils' 

Of  the  Sassanach  maiden : 

Such  rich  silks  enrob’d  not 
The  proud  dames  of  Mallow — 

Such  pure  gold  they  wore  not 
As  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 

Alas ! that  my  loved  one 
Her  outlaw  would  injure — 

Alas ! that  he  e’er  proved 
Her  treason’s  avenger ! 

That  this  right  hand  should  make  thee 
A bed  cold  and  hollow, 

When  in  death’s  sleep  it  laid  thee, 

Young  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh! 

And  while  to  this  lone  cave 
My  deep  grief  I’m  venting, 

The  Saxon’s  keen  bandog 
My  footsteps  is  scenting : 

But  true  men  await  me 
Afar  in  Duhallow, 

Farewell,  cave  of  slaughter 
And  Mairgread  ni  Chealleadh. 

$ A knife;  pronounced  as  if  written  skeen.  We  may  infer  the  sJcian  was  of  high  repute, 
of  old,  for  mention  of  it  is  made  in  ancient  English  ballads.  Robin  Hood,  that  celebrated 
outlaw,  designated  in  ancient  annals  as  “ Of  all  theeves  the  prince  and  the  most  gentle 
theefe ,”  is  invested  with  an  “ Iryshe  knife'’  by  the  minstrel ; and  we  may  suppose  the 
prince  of  thieves  would  have  the  best.  In  the  ballad  of  “Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gis- 
borne,” Robin  makes  use  of  this  knife  on  Guy,  and  afterwards  uses  it  to  loose  “ Little 
Jolin”  from  the  bonds  of  the  enemy. 

“ But  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irysh  knife. 

And  losed  John  hand  and  foote. 

And  gave  him  Sir  Guye’s  bowe  into  his  hand, 

And  bade  it  be  his  boote.” 


THE  MID  WATCH. 


Sheridan. 

When  ’tis  night,  and  the  mid-watch  is  come, 

And  chilling  mists  hang  o’er  the  darkened  main. 

Then  sailors  think  of  their  far-distant  home, 

And  of  those  friends  they  ne’er  may  see  again ; 

But  when  the  light’s  begun, 

Each  serving  at  his  gun 

Should  any  thought  of  them  come  o’er  your  mind ; 

Think,  only,  should  the  day  be  won, 

How  ’twill  cheer 
Their  hearts  to  hear 
That  their  old  companion  he  was  one. 

Or,  my  lad,  if  you  a mistress  kind 

Have  left  on  shore,  some  pretty  girl  and  true, 

Who  many  a night  doth  listen  to  the  wind, 

And  sighs  to  think  how  it  may  fare  with  you  : 

Oh,  when  the  light’s  begun, 

You  serving  at  your  gun, 

Should  any  thought  of  her  come  o’er  your  mind : 

Think,  only,  should  the  day  be  won, 

How  ’twill  cheer 
Her  heart  to  hear 

That  her  own  true  sailor  he  was  one. 

This  is  a charming  song,  and  full  of  sweet  sentiment,  and  has,  therefore,  enjoyed  great 


L 


330 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


popularity.  Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Sheridan,  notices  the  inadmissable  rhyme, 

“ But  when  the  fight’s  begun, 

Each  serving  at  his  gun  .” 

And,  strange  to  say,  he  tells  us  Sheridan  would  insist  upon  it  the  rhyme  was  good.  Now, 
clearly,  it  is  not.  The  sound  here  is  not  a match  for  a preceding  sound,  but  identical  with 
it,  and,  therefore,  not  a rhyme.  Indeed,  Sheridan  seems  to  have  been  very  careless  as  to 
rhymes  throughout  this  otherwise  perfect  composition ; for,  in  the  first  verse,  the  word 
“mind,”  in  the  seventh  line,  does  not  rhyme  to  anything. 


CAITRIN,  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JOHN. 

From  the  Irish. 

The  very  title  of  this  ballad  is  of  antique  mould— no  surname— she  is  Catharine,  the 
daughter  of  John.  Her  Christian  name,  even,  is  mentioned  only  mice.  She  is  the  cold 
virgin — or  a splendid  jewel — light  of  the  poet — fairest  of  beauty’s  train — the  harp’s  inspira- 
tion— and,  finally,  “ Bright  swan  of  Lough  Glynn.”  This  has  the  ring  of  the  old  metal 
about  it. 

Sing  the  Hunter  of  Bera,*  who  from  Ballagh  came  hither, 

Our  gates  opened  wide  to  his  coming  at  noon,. 

And  the  virgin  whose  coldness-  did  suitors’  hopes  wither, 

The  snow-waisted  Caitrin,  the  daughter  of  John  ! 

There  are  tall  sons  of  bravery  that  pine  in  her  slavery ; 

Her  eye  all  beguiling — small  lips  like  the  rose  ; 

She’s  a jewel  all  splendid,  of  brightest  hues  blended, 

Each  gold- wreathed  ringlet  to  her  white  ancle  flows ! 

Now  why  should  we  wonder  if  thousands  surrender, 

Like  Connor  to  Deirdre,  j*  their  hearts  to  her  chain  ; 

Guiding  light  of  the  poet,  of  sun-glancing  splendour, 

The  fairest  in  Erin  of  beauty’s  bright  train  ! 

O’er  her  kindred  and  nation  she  holds  highest  station, 
Dispensing  rich  guerdons  to  minstrels  of  song ; 

Cl  an- Murray’s  fair  darling — my  harp’s  inspiration, 

Bright  swan  of  Lough  Glynn,  beauteous  daughter  of  John  ! 

* Bera  means  the  old  O’Sullivan  Country  in  the  south-west  of  Cork.  The  head  of  the 
family  is  still  called  O’Sullivan  Bear  by  the  peasantry.  Hence  the  name  of  the  fine  harbour 
in  that  locality,  Bearhaven.  The  scenery  in  this  region  is  very  fine. 

t Allusion  to  Deirdre  is  frequently  made  by  the  Irish  minstrels.  A sketch  of  her  strange 
story  and  fate  is  given  in  this  volume.  See  “ Deirdre.” 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


331 


THE  FETCH 

John  Banim. 

In  Ireland,  a Fetch  is  the  supernatural  fac  simile  of  some  individual,  which  comes  to 
insure  to  its  original  a happy  longevity,  or  immediate  dissolution.  If  seen  in  the  morning, 
the  one  event  is  predicted;  if  in  the  evening,  the  other. — Author's  note. 


Tiie  mother  died  when,  the  child  was  horn, 

And  left  me  her  baby  to  keep  ; 

I rocked  its  cradle  the  night  and  morn, 

Or,  silent,  hung  o’er  it  to  weep. 

’Twas  a sickly  child  through  its  infancy, 

Its  cheeks  were  so  ashy  pale ; 

Till  it  broke  from  my  aims  to  walk  in  glee, 

Out  in  the  sharp,  fresh  gale. 

And  then  my  little  girl  grew  strong, 

And  laughed  the  hours  away ; 

Or  sung  me  the  merry  lark’s  mountain  song, 
Which  he  taught  her  at  break  of  day. 

When  she  wreathed  her  hair  in  thicket  bowers, 
With  the  hedge-rose  and  hare-hell  blue, 

I called  her  my  May,  in  her  crown  of  flowers, 

And  her  smile  so  soft  and  new. 

And  the  rose,  I thought,  never  shamed  her  cheek, 
But  rosy  and  rosier  made  it ; 

And  her  eye  of  blue  did  more  brightly  break, 
Through  the  bluebell  that  strove  to  shade  it. 

One  evening  I left  her  asleep  in  her  smiles, 

And  walked  through  the  mountains  lonely ; . 

I was  far  from  my  darling,  ah ! many  long  miles. 
And  I thought  of  her,  and  her  only  ! . 

She  darkened  my  path,  like  a troubled  dream, 

In  that  solitude  far  and  drear ; 

I spoke  to  my  child ! but  she  did  not  seem 
To  hearken  with  human  ear. 

She  only  looked  with  a dead,  dead  eye, 

And  a wan,  wan  cheek  of  sorrow, 

I knew  her  Fetch  ! she  was  called  to  die 
And  she  died  upon  the  morrow. 


332 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


THE  LOST  PATH- 


Thomas  Davis. 

Sweet  thoughts,  bright  dreams,  my  comfort  he, 
All  comfort  else  has  flown  ; 

For  every  hope  was  false  to  me, 

And  here  I am  alone. 

What  thoughts  were  mine  in  early  youth ! 

Like  some  old  Irish  song, 

Brimful  of  love,  and  life,  and  truth, 

My  spirit  gush’d  along. 

I hoped  to  right  my  native  isle, 

I hoped^i  soldier’s  fame, 

I hoped  to  rest  in  woman’s  smile, 

And  win  a minstrel’s  name. 

Oh ! little  have  I served  my  land, 

Ho  laurels  press  my  brow, 

I have  no  woman’s  heart  or  hand, 

Hor  minstrel  honour's  now. 

But  fancy  has  a magic  power, 

It  brings  me  wreath  and  crown, 

And  woman’s  love,  the  self-same  hour 
It  smites  oppression  down. 

Sweet  thoughts,  bright  dreams,  my  comfort  he, 
I have  no  joy  beside  ; 

Oh  ! throng  around,  and  he  to  me 
Power,  country,  fame,  and  bride. 


WHOE’ER  SHE  BE,  I LOVE  HER. 

From  tlie  Irish.  Translated  by  Edward  Walsh. 

Theougii  pleasure’s  bowers  I wildly  flew, 
Deceiving  maids,  if  tales  he  true, 

Till  love’s  lorn  anguish  made  me  rue 
That  one  young  Fair-neck  saw  me, 
Whose  modest  mien  did  awe  me, 

Who  left  my  life  to  hover 

O’er  death’s  dark  shade — 

The  stainless  maid, 

Whoe’er  she  he,  I love  her ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


333 


Her  hair  like  quivering  foliage  flows, 

Her  heart  no  thought  of  evil  knows, 

Her  face  with  purest  virtue  glows, 

Her  fame  all  hate  defying — 

While  for  her  crowds  aie  dying, 

And  round  death’s  threshold  hover, 
Where  I,  for  one, 

Am  nearly  gone — 

Whoe’er  she  he,  I love  her  ! 

What  beauteous  teeth,  and  lip,  and  neck, 

And  eye,  and  brow  the  maiden  deck ! 

What  red  and  white  her  cheek  bespeck ! 

Like  wave-pois’d  swan,  she’s  fairest, 

In  virtue  high  she’s  rarest ; 

In  her  may  none  discover 
One  deed  to  blame — 

Mild,  modest  dame, 

Whoe’er  she  be,  I love  her ! 

But  since  soft  ties  are  round  us  wove, 

Which  nought  but  death  can  e’er  remove, 
That  balsam-bearing  Lip  of  love 

That  spell-bound  left  me  dying — 

Now  far  together  flying 
The  ocean-billows  over, 

Who  can  divide 
From  me  my  bride  ? 

Whoe’er  she  be,  I love  her ! 

But  first  to  Eirne’s  lovely  lake, 

Where  maids  are  gay,  our  course  we’ll  take, 
Where  generous  chiefs  bright  banquets  make, 
And  purple  wine  is  flowing ; 

Then  from  our  dear  friends  going, 

We’ll  sail  the  ocean  over, 

I and  my  dame 
Of  stainless  fame — 

Whoe’er  she  be,  I love  her ! 

Her  secret  name  I’ll  not  impart, 

Although  she  pierced  my  wandering  heart, 
With  such  a death- dispensing  dart 
As  love- sick  left  me  lying, 

In  fiery  torment  dying, 

Till  pity  mild  did  move  her — 

But  wine  of  Spain 
To  her  we’ll  drain, 

Whoe’er  she  be,  I love  her! 


MARY  OF  TIPPERARY. 

Samuel  Loyeh. 

From  sweet  Tipperary 
See  light-hearted  Mary, 

Her  step,  like  a fairy,  scarce  ruffles  the  dew, 

As  she  joyously  springs, 

And  as  joyously  sings, 

Disdaining  such  things  as  a stocking  or  shoe ; 

For  she  goes  hare-footed — 

Like  Yenus,  or  Cupid, 

And  who’d  be  so  stupid  to  put  her  in  silk, 

When  her  sweet  foot  and  ankle 
The  dewdrops  bespangle, 

As  she  trips  o’er  the  lawn, 

At  the  blush  of  the  dawn, 

As  she  trips  o’er  the  lawn  Avith  her  full  pail  of  milk. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


335 


For  the  dance  when  array’d, 

See  this  bright  mountain  maid, 

If  her  hair  she  would  braid  with  young*  beauty’s  fond  lure, 
O’er  some  clear  fountain  stooping, 

Her  dark  tresses  looping, — 

Diana  herself  ne’er  had  mirror  more  pure ! 

How  lovely  that  toilet ! 

Would  Fashion  dare  soil  it 
With  paint,  or  with  patches,  when  Nature  bestows 
A beauty  more  simple, 

In  mirth’s  artless  dimple? 

Heaven’s  light  in  her  eye — 

The  soft  blue  of  the  sky — 

Heaven’s  light  in  her  eye,  and  a blush  like  the  rose ! 


THE  SEA. 

Mrs.  Downing. 

I LOVE  it,  I love  it, 

Whatever  its  hue — 

Be  it  dark,  be  it  bright, 

Be  it  green,  be  it  blue  ; 

In  whirlwind  or  calm, 

Let  it  chance  as  it  will, 

In  sunshine  or  storm, 

It  is  dear  to  me  still, 

I love  it  when  glassy, 

And  shadowy  and  shining, 
The  bark  and  the  oar 

On  its  wave  are  reclining — 
When  lute-sounds  of  song 
O’er  its  bosom  are  stealing — 
When  lightnings  are  flashing, 
When  thunders  are  pealing. 

I love  it  when  resting 
In  dawn’s  misty  light, 

The  white  sails  are  cresting 
The  foam-billows  height ; 
When,  dim  in  the  starlight, 

It  breaks  into  spray — 

When  broadly  and  brightly 
’Tis  flashing  in  day. 


336 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


But  oh ! when  the  green 
Island  shores  are  at  rest, 
When  the  last  glowing  ray 
Fades  away  from  the  west, 
With  silence  and  moonlight 
About,  and  above  it, 

Then,  then,  most  of  all, 

Oh  ! I love  it,  I love  it ! 


LEADING*  THE  CALVES. 

From  the  Irish. 


One  evening  mild,  in  summer  weather, 

My  calves  in  the  wild  wood  tending, 

I saw  a maid,  in  whom  together 

All  beauty’s  charms  were  blending — ■ 

44  Permit  our  Hocks  to  mix,”  I said, 

“ ’Tis  what  a maiden  mild  would, 

And  when  the  shades  of  night  are  lied 

We’ll  lead  our  calves  from  the  wild  wood.” 

44  There  grows  a tree  in  the  wild  wood’s  breast, 

We’ll  stay  till  morn  beneath  it, 

Where  songs  of  birds  invite  to  rest, 

And  leaves  and  flowers  enwreath  it — 

Mild,  modest  maid,  ’tis  not  amiss  ; 

’Twas  thus  we  met  in  childhood  ; 

To  thee  at  morn  my  hand  I’ll  kiss,* 

And  lead  the  calves  through  the  wild  wood ! 5 

44  With  calves  I sought  the  pastures  wild ; 

They’ve  stray’d  beyond  my  keeping — 

At  home  my  father  calls  his  child, 

And  my  dear  mother’s  weeping — 

The  forester,  if  here  they  stray, 

Perhaps,  in  friendship  mild,  would 
Permit  our  stay  till  the  dawn  of  day, 

When  we’ll  lead  our  calves  from  the  wild  wood.” 


* The  literal  meaning  of  this  line,  in  the  original,  is,  you  will  receive  a kiss  from  me  out 
of  the  top  of  my  hand.  It  shows  that  the  custom  of  kissing  hands  in  salutation  has  pre- 
vailed among  the  Irish  peasantry. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


337 


THE  FIRST  CUCKOO  IN  STRING. 

J.  F.  Waller,  LL.D. 

This  song  is  written  to  a charming  air,  called  “My  Bonny  Cuckoo,”  given  in  “Bunting's 
Ancient  Music  of  Ireland  (Dublin,  1840).”  The  cuckoo’s  musical  interval  is  given  in  the 
air,  and  the  Italic  passages  in  the  song  are  most  ingeniously  adapted  to  the  melody. 

One  sweet  eve  in  spring,  as  the  daylight  died, 

Mave  sat  in  her  bow’r  by  her  father’s  side ; 

( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  so  soft  and  so  clear, 

Sang  the  bonny  cuckoo  from  a thicket  near : 

( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  “Do  listen,  my  dear, 

’Tis  the  first  cuckoo’s  note  I have  heard  this  year.” 

The  maiden  smiled  archly,  then  sighed — “ ’Tis  long 
I’ve  waited  and  watched  for  that  sweet  bird’s  song 
( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  ‘ { Ere  winter  he’ll  roam 
With  some  beloved  mate  to  his  distant  home.” 

( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  ‘ ‘ Ah,  would  I might  roam 
With  that  bonny  cuckoo  to  his  distant  home.” 

The  old  man  he  frowned  at  the  maid,  and  said, 

“What  puts  such  wild  thoughts  in  your  foolish  head  ?” 

( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo!)  “ No  maid  should  desire 
To  roam  from  her  own  native  land  and  sire.” 

( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  “ I don’t  love  a note 
That  comes  from  that  foreign  bird’s  weary  throat. 

“ The  blackbird  and  throstle,  I love  their  song, 

They  cheer  us  through  summer  and  autumn  long 
( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  “ And  then  they  ne’er  roam, 

But  they  mate  and  they  live  all  the  year  at  home 
( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  “ ’Tis  still  the  same  note 
That  comes  from  that  foreign  bird’s  weary  throat.” 

The  old  man  he  sleeps  in  the  drowsy  air, 

While  soft  from  his  side  steals  his  daughter  fair. 

(< Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  /)  There’s  a bird  in  the  grove 
That  sings  a sweet  song  all  young  maidens  love. 

( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  Says  the  bird  from  the  grove, — 

“I’m  weary  cuckooing  this  hour,  my  love.” 

The  old  man  he  dreams  that  the  cuckoo  sings 
Close  up  to  his  ear  very  wondrous  things : 

( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  “I  love  your  dear  Mave, 

And  won  her  young  heart  just  without  your  leave.’5 
( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  /)  ‘ 1 She  is  willing  to  roam 
From  her  own  beloved  nest  to  my  distant  home.” 

16 


338 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Half  in  fear,  half  in  anger,  her  sire  awakes, 

As  her  lip  on  his  brow  a soft  farewell  takes. 

( Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  The  old  man  is  alone, 

For  vision,  and  cuckoo,  and  child  are  gone  : 

{Cuckoo  ! Cuckoo  !)  A sweet  voice  whispers  near, — 

4‘  We’ll  be  back  with  the  cuckoo  in  spring  next  year.” 


THE  HAUNTED  SPRING. 

Samuel  Lover. 

It  is  said  Fays  have  the  power  to  assume  various  shapes  for  the  purpose  of  luring  mortals 
into  Fairyland : hunters  seem  to  have  been  particularly  the  objects  of  the  lady-fairies 
fancies. 

Gaily  through  the  mountain  glen 
The  hunter’s  horn  did  ring, 

As  the  milk-white  doe 
Escaped  his  bow, 

Down  by  the  haunted  spring  ; 

In  vain  his  silver  horn  he  wound,— 

’Twas  echo  answer’d  back; 

For  neither  groom  nor  baying  hound 
Was  on  the  hunter’s  track  ; 

In  vain  he  sought  the  milk-white  doe 

That  made  him  stray,  and  ’scaped  his  bow, 

For,  save  himself,  no  living  thing 

Was  by  the  silent  haunted  spring. 

The  purple  heath-bells,  blooming  fair, 

Their  fragrance  round  did  fling, 

As  the  hunter  lay, 

At  close  of  day, 

Down  by  the  haunted  spring ; 

A lady  fair,  in  robe  of  white, 

To  greet  the  hunter  came  ; 

She  kiss’d  a cup  with  jewels  bright, 

And  pledged  him  by  his  name  ; 

“ Oh,  lady  fair,”  the  hunter  cried, 

“ Be  thou  my  love,  my  blooming  bride, 

A bride  that  well  might  grace  a king  ! 

Fair  lady  of  the  haunted  spring.” 

In  the  fountain  clear  she  stoop’d, 

And  forth  she  drew  a ring  ; 

And  that  loved  knight 
His  faith  did  plight 
Down  by  the  haunted  spring  - 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


339 


But  since  that  day  his  chase  did  stray, 
The  hunter  ne’er  was  seen, 

And  legends  tell,  he  now  doth  dwell 
Within  the  hills  so  green  ;* 

But  still  the  milk-white  doe  appears, 
And  wakes  the  peasants’  evening  fears, 
While  distant  bugles  faintly  ring 
Around  the  lonely  haunted  spring. 


• In  Ireland,  the  fairies  are  said  to  abide  in  the  “ green  hills.” 


MAURYEEN. 

The  cottage  is  here  as  of  old  1 remember, 

The  pathway  is  worn  as  it  always  hath  been ; 

On  the  turf-piled  hearth  there  still  lives  a bright  ember, 
But  where  is  Mauryeen  ? 

The  same  pleasant  prospect  still  lieth  before  me, — 

The  river — the  mountain — the  valley  of  green  ; 

And  heaven  itself  (a  bright  blessing !)  is  o’er  me  : — 

But  where  is  Mauryeen  ? 

Lost ! lost ! like  a dream  that  hath  come  and  departed 
(Ah,  why  are  the  loved  and  the  lost  ever  seen  ?) 

She  has  fallen — hath  flown — with  a lover  false-hearted — • 
So  mourn  for  Mauryeen  ! 

And  she  who  so  loved  her  is  slain — (the  poor  mother  !) 
Struck  dead  in  a day  by  a shadow  unseen ; 

And  the  home  we  once  loved  is  the  home  of  another — 
And  lost  is  Mauryeen  ! 

Sweet  Shannon,  a moment  by  thee  let  me  ponder — 

A moment  look  back  to  the  things  that  have  been  ; 

Then  away  to  the  world,  where  the  ruin’d  ones  wander, 
To  seek  for  Mauryeen ! 

Pale  peasant,  perhaps,  ’neath  the  frown  of  high  heaven, 
She  roams  the  dark  deserts  of  sorrow  unseen, 

Unpitied — unknown  ; but  I — I shall  know  even 
The  ghost  of  Mauryeen  ! 


TOM  MOODY. 

Andrew  Cheery. 

Andrew  Cherry  was  bom  in  Limerick,  January  11,  1762.  He  received  a respectable 
education  at  a grammar  school  there — was  intended  for  holy  orders,  but  his  father  meet- 
ing with  misfortunes,  Cherry  was  bound  to  a printer.  He  went  on  the  stage,  and,  after  all 
the  vicissitudes  attending  a stroller’s  life,  made  reputation,  and  graduated  from  the  pro- 
vinces up  to  Dublin,  and  thence  to  London,  and  was  received  with  much  applause.  He 
became  manager  of  the  Swansea  theatre,  and  there,  in  my  boyhood,  I saw  Edmund  Kean 
perform  before  he  made  his  great  name  in  London.  Cherry  produced  ten  dramatic  pieces, 
of  which  the  incidental  songs  are  of  fair  average  merit ; but  the  one  that  follows  is  not 
only  Cherry’s  best,  but  among  the  very  best  of  its  class,  possessing  a tenderness  of  senti- 
ment rare  in  this  class  of  composition,  and  touching  the  feelings  after  a manner  that 
reminds  us  of  that  other  celebrated  sporting  song,  “ The  High-mettled  Racer,”  of  Dibdin. 

You  all  knew  Tom  Moody,  the  whipper-in,  well ; 

The  hell  just  done  tolling  was  honest  Tom’s  knell ; 

A more  able  sportsman  ne’er  followed  a hound, 

Through  a country  well  known  to  him  fifty  miles  round. 

No  hound  ever  open’d  with  Tom  near  the  wood, 

But  he’d  challenge  the  tone,  and  could  tell  if  ’twere  good  ; 

And  all  with  attention  would  eagerly  mark, 

When  he  cheer’d  up  the  pack,  “Hark!  to  Rookwood,  hark!  hark! 

High  ! — wind  him ! and  cross  him ; 

Now,  Rattler,  boy! — Hark!” 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


341 


Six  crafty  earth-stoppers,  in  hunter’s  green  drest, 
Supported  poor  Tom  to  an  “ earth”  made  for  rest ; 

His  horse,  which  he  styled  his  Old  Soul,  next  appear’d, 
On  whose  forehead  the  brush  of  the  last  fox  was  rear’d  ; 
Whip,  cap,  boots,  and  spurs,  in  a trophy  were  bound, 
And  here  and  there  follow’d  an  old  straggling  hound. 
Ah  ! no  more  at  his  voice  yonder  vales  will  they  trace, 
Nor  the  welkin  resound  to  the  burst  in  the  chase  ! 

With  “ High  over ! — now  press  him ! 
Tally-ho!— Tally-ho!” 

Thus  Tom  spoke  his  friends  ere  he  gave  up  his  breath, 

“ Since  I see  you’re  resolved  to  be  in  at  the  death, 

One  favour  bestow — ’tis  the  last  I shall  crave, — 

Give  a rattling  view-hollow  thrice  over  my  grave  ; 

And  unless  at  that  warning  I lift  up  my  head, 

My  boys  you  may  fairly  conclude  I am  dead ! ” 

Honest  Tom  was  obey’d,  and  the  shout  rent  the  sky. 

For  every  voice  join’d  in  the  tally-ho  cry, 

Tally-ho  ! Hark  forward  ! 

Tally-ho!  Tally-ho! 


HE  WAS  FAMED  FOR  DEEDS  OF  ARMS. 

Andeew  Cheeky. 

Here  is  another  specimen  of  Cherry’s  muse,  by  no  means  equal  to  the  former,  but  it  gave 
the  opportunity  of  effect  in  being  sung,  and  hence,  was  a favourite  song  of  the  late  Mr. 
Braham,  that  great  English  singer,  who  has  left  no  equal  behind  him. 

He  was  famed  for  deeds  of  arms, 

She  a maid  of  envied  charms ; 

She  to  him  her  love  imparts, 

One  pure  flame  pervades  both  hearts ; 

Honour  calls  him  to  the  field, 

Love  to  conquest,  now,  must  yield — 

Sweet  maid ! he  cries,  again  I’ll  come  to  thee, 

When  the  glad  trumpet  sounds  a victory ! 

Battle,  now,  with  fury  glows ; 

Hostile  blood  in  torrents  flows ; 

His  duty  tells  him  to  depart ; 

She  pressed  her  hero  to  her  heart ; 

And,  now,  the  trumpet  sounds  to  arms ; 

Amid  the  clash  of  rude  alarms — 

Sweet  maid,  he  cries,  again  I’ll  come  to  thee, 

When  the  glad  trumpet  sounds  a victory ! 


342 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


He  with,  love  and  conquest  burns, 

Both  subdue  his  mind  by  turns ! 

Death  the  soldier,  now,  enthrals ! 

With  his  wounds  the  hero  falls ! 

She,  disdaining  war’s  alarms, 

Bushed,  and  caught  him  in  her  arms ! 

Oh  ! death,  he  cries,  thou’rt  welcome  now  to  me ! 
For,  hark ! the  trumpet  sounds  a victory ! 


THE  BAY  OF  BISCAY. 

Andrew  Cherry. 

Here  is  a third  song  of  Cherry’s,  which  has,  at  least,  the  merit  of  being  graphic — and  to 
that  may  be  attributed  most  likely  its  great  popularity,  assisted,  no  doubt,  by  Davy’s 
pleasing  and  effective  music.  This  was  also  one  of  Braham’s  favourites,  and  one  of  tho 
very  few  sea-songs  of  Irish  origin. 


Loud  roar’d  the  dreadful  thunder, 
The  rain  a deluge  showers, 

The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 
By  lightning’s  vivid  powers: 
The  night  both  drear  and  dark, 
Our  poor  devoted  bark, 

Till  next  day,  there  she  lay 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0 ! 


How  dash’d  upon  the  billow, 
Our  opening  timbers  creak ; 
Each  fears  a wat’ry  pillow, 
Hone  stops  the  dreadful  leak; 
To  cling  to  slipp’ry  shrouds 
Each  breathless  seaman  crowds, 
As  she  lay,  till  next  day, 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0 ! 


At  length  the  wish’d-for  morrow 
Broke  thro’  the  hazy  sky ; 
Absorb’d  in  silent  sorrow, 

Each  heav’d  a bitter  sigh  ; 

The  dismal  wreck  to  view 
Struck  horror  to  the  crew, 

As  she  lay,  on  that  day, 

HnT7’  ref  Hisnntr 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


343 


Her  yielding  timbers  sever, 

Her  pitchy  seams  are  rent, 
When  Heaven,  all-bounteous  ever, 
Its  boundless  mercy  sent ; 

A sail  in  sight  appears, 

We  hail  her  with  three  cheers: 
How  we  sail,  with  the  gale, 

From  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  0 ! 


DEIEDRE, 

From  the  Irish. 

Deirdre,  the  daughter  of  Felimy,  the  son  of  Dali,  was  exquisitely  beautiful.  At  her 
birth,  it  was  prophesied  she  should  prove  the  ruin  of  Ulster.  The  king,  Connor  MacNessa, 
caused  her  to  be  educated  with  great  care,  and  in  guarded  seclusion,  intending  to  make 
her  his  queen : but  Deirdre  preferred  the  young  Naisi,  one  of  the  sons  of  Usnach,  to  the  old 
king,  and,  snatching  a favourable  opportunity,  threw  a rose  to  Naisi,  which,  according  to  the 
custom  of  that  day,  bound  him  in  honour  to  marry  her;  and  though  he  anticipated  ruin 
from  the  abduction  of  the  king’s  intended  wife,  he  said  to  his  brothers— who  also  dreaded 
the  consequences  of  the  act — that  he  would  “rather  live  in  misfortune  than  in  dishonour,” 
and  that  he  should  be  “disgraced  before  the  men  of  Erin  for  ever,  if  he  did  not  take  her, 
after  that  which  she  had  done.”  The  three  brothers— all  great  warriors — fled  from  Ireland 
to  Alba  (Scotland),  and  found  safety  on  the  banks  of  Loch  Etive.  The  absence  of  such 
distinguished  heroes  was  felt  to  be  a national  loss,  and  the  king  sent  a messenger  to  them, 
promising  forgiveness  to  all.  Naisi  trusted  in  the  king’s  word;  but  Deirdre  feared 
treachery,  and  before  leaving  their  sylvan  retreat,  the  only  safe  and  happy  one  in  Deirdre’s 
belief,  she  is  supposed  to  utter  this  passionate  farewell : — 

Farewell  to  fair  Alba*  bigh  bouse  of  tbe  sun  ; 

Farewell  to  the  mountain,  the  cliff,  and  the  dun; 

Dun  Sweeny,  adieu ! for  my  love  cannot  stay, 

And  tarry  1 must  not,  when  love  cries  “ away.” 

Glen  Yasban  ! Glen  Yasban  ! where  roebucks  run  free, 

Where  my  love  used  to  feed  on  the  red-deer  with  me, 

Where,  rocked  on  thy  waters,  while  stormy  winds  blew, 

My  love  used  to  slumber  ; Glen  Yashan,  adieu  ! 

Glendaro  ! Glendaro ! where  birchen  boughs  weep, 

Honey  dew  at  high  noon  to  the  Nightingale’s  sleep ; 

Where  my  love  used  to  lead  me  to  hear  the  cuckoo, 

’Mong  the  high  hazel  bushes  ; Glendaro,  adieu  ! 

* It  will  be  observed  that  there  is  no  mention  of  Scotland  throughout  the  entire  of  this 
antique  romance,  prose  or  verse.  The  country  is  called  Alba  its  ancient  name. 


344 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Glenurcby  ! Glenurcby  ! where  loudly  and  long, 

My  love  used  to  wake  up  tlie  woods  with  his  song, 

While  the  son  of  the  rockf,  from  the  depths  of  the  dell, 
Laughed  sweetly  in  answer  ; Glenurchy,  farewell ! 

Glen  Etive ! Glen  Etive ! where  dappled  does  roam, 

Where  I leave  the  green  sheeling,  1 tirst  call’d  a home, 

Where  with  me  my  true  love  delighted  to  dwell, 

The  sun  made  his  mansion^ ; Glen  Etive,  farewell ! 

Farewell  to  Inch  Draynagh ; adieu  to  the  roar 
Of  blue  billows  bursting  in  light  on  the  shore ; 

Dun  Fiagh,  farewell ! for  my  love  cannot  stay, 

And  tarry,  I must  not,  when  love  cries  “ away.” 

t “Son  of  the  rook.”  The  echo.— How  charmingly  fanciful ! 

t She  calls  Glen  Etive  Bally-Graine,  or  “Suntown.” 

On  arriving  in  Ireland,  they  are  conducted  to  Emania,  and  lodged  in  the  house  of  the 
Eed  Branch.  King  Connor  inquires  if  Deirdre  be  still  lovely,  “ if  her  beauty  yet  lives 
upon  her?”  and  a messenger  tells  him  she  is  still  “the  fairest  woman  on  the  ridge  of  the 
world.”  The  house  is  then  surrounded  by  the  soldiers  of  the  king,  while  Naisi  and  Deirdre 
are  playing  at  chess.  The  brothers,  finding  they  are  betrayed,  rush  out,  and  do  prodigies 
of  valour.  Ardan  slays  “ three-hundred  men  of  might,”  Ainli  kills  twice  as  many,  and  then 
Naisi  joins  the  fray,  which  is  thus  described : — “ Till  the  sands  of  the  sea,  the  dewdrops  of 
the  meadows,  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  or  the  stars  of  heaven  be  counted,  it  is  not  possible 
to  tell  the  numbers  of  heads  and  hands  and  lopped  limbs  of  heroes  that  there  lay  bare  and 
red  from  the  hands  of  Naisi  and  his  brothers  of  the  plain,” — they  then  spread  the  links  of 
their  joined  bucklers  round  Deirdre,  and  bounding  forth  “like  three  eagles,”  swept  down 
on  the  troops  of  Connor,  making  tremendous  havoc,  until  Cathbad,  the  druid,  throws  a spell 
over  them,  “like  a sea  of  thick  gums,  that  clogged  their  limbs,”  and  the  sons  of  Usnach 
are  then  put  to  death,  and  Deirdre,  standing  over  their  grave,  sings  the  funeral  song,  and 
then  flings  herself  into  the  grave  and  expires.  The  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  for  Connor’s 
treachery  and  murderous  act  alienated  all  hearts  from  him,  and  the  downfall  of  his  house 
was  accomplished.  Such  is  a very  brief  outline  of  this  story,  which,  as  Mr.  Ferguson 
remarks,  “ has  possessed  an  extraordinary  charm  for  the  people  of  Ireland  for  better  than 
a thousand  years.” 


Here  is  the  funeral  wail,  over  the  loved  and  the  brave,  by  the  beautiful  and  fatal  Deirdre. 

DEIRDRE’S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SONS  OF  USNACH. 

Translated  from  the  Irish  by  S.  Ferguson,  M.B.I.A. 

The  lions  of  tbe  bill  are  gone, 

And  I am  left  alone — alone  ; 

Dig  tbe  grave  botb  wide  and  deep, 

For  I am  sick,  and  fain  would  sleep. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


345 


The  falcons  of  the  wood  are  flown, 

And  1 am  left  alone — alone  ; 

Dig  the  grave  both  deep  and  wide, 

And  let  us  slumber  side  by  side. 

The  dragons  of  the  rock  are  sleeping — 
Sleep  that  wakes  not  for  our  weeping  ; 

Dig  the  grave>  and  make  it  ready, 

Lay  me  on  my  true  love’s  body. 

Lay  their  spears  and  bucklers  bright 
By  the  warriors’  sides  aright ; 

Many  a day  the  three  before  me 
On  their  linked  bucklers  bore  me. 

Lay  upon  the  low  grave  floor, 

’Neath  each  head,  the  blue  claymore ; 
Many  a time  the  noble  three 
Bedaened  these  blue  blades  for  me. 

Lay  the  collars,  as  is  meet, 

Of  their  greyhounds  at  their  feet ; 

Many  a time  for  me  have  they 
Brought  the  tall  red  deer  to  bay. 

In  the  falcon’s  jesses  throw 
Hook  and  arrow,  line  and  bow ; 

Never  again  by  stream  or  plain 
Shall  the  gentle  woodsmen  go. 

Sweet  companions,  were  ye  ever 
Harsh  to  me,  your  sister  F — never. 

Woods,  and  wilds,  and  misty  valleys, 
Were  with  you  as  good’s  a palace. 

Oh ! to  hear  my  true  love  singing,* 

Sweet  as  sounds  of  trumpets  ringing ; 
Like  the  sway  of  ocean  swelling, 

Ilolled  his  deep  voice  round  our  dwelling. 

Oh ! to  hear  the  echoes  pealing 
Bound  our  green  and  fairy  sheeling, 
When  the  three,  with  soaring  chorus, 
Made  the  sky-lark  silent  o’er  us. 


* In  the  original  tale,  speaking  of  the  brothers,  it  is  said,  “ Sweet,  in  truth,  was  the 
music  of  the  sons  of  Usnacli.  The  cattle,  listening  to  it,  milked  over  two-thirds  more  than 
was  their  wont."  Modern  dairymen  increase  their  cow’s  milk  from  pipes  of  another 


346 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Echo,  now  sleep  morn  and  even — 
Lark,  alone  enchant  the  heaven ; 
Ardan’s  lips  are  scant  of  breath, 
Naisi’s  tongue  is  cold  in  death. 

Stag,  exult  on  glen  and  mountain, 
Salmon,  leap  from  loch  to  fountain ; 
Heron,  in  the  free  air  warm  ye, 
Usnach’s  sons  no  more  will  harm  ye. 

Erin’s  stay  no  more  ye  are, 

Rulers  of  the  ridge  of  war ; 

Never  more  ’twill  be  your  fate 
To  keep  the  beam  of  battle  straight. 

Woe  is  me ! by  fraud  and  wrong, 
Traitors  false,  and  tyrants  strong, 
Fell  Clan  Usnach  bought  and  sold, 
For  Barach’s  feast  and  Conor’s  gold. 

Woe  to  Eman,  roof  and  wall ! 

Woe  to  Red  Branch,  hearth  and  hall! 
Tenfold  woe  and  black  dishonour 
To  the  foul  and  false  Clan  Conor. 

Big  the  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 
Sick  I am,  and  fain  would  sleep ! 

Big  the  grave  and  make  it  ready, 

Lay  me  on  my  true  love’s  body. 


THE  RAKES  OF  MALLOW. 

Air,  “ Sandy  lent  the  Man  his  Mull.” 

Some  hundred  years  ago  Mallow  was  a fashionable  watering-place,  and  enjoyed  the  title 
of  “ Irish  Bath,”  according  to  Dr.  Smith,  who  wrote  about  it  in  those  days.  But,  to  judge 
by  the  following  song,  the  rakes  of  Mallow  did  not  trouble  the  water  much. 

Beauing,  belling,  dancing,  drinking, 

Breaking  windows,  damning,  sinking, 

Ever  raking,  never  thinking, 

Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

Spending  faster  than  it  comes. 

Beating  waiters,  bailiffs,  duns, 

.Bacohus’  true  begotten  sons, 

Live  the  rakes  of  Mallory. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


347 


One  time  naught  hut  claret  drinking, 

Then  like  politicians  thinking 

To  raise  the  sinking  funds  when  sinking, 

Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

When  at  home  with  dadda  dying, 

Still  for  Mallow- water  crying ; 

But  where  there  is  good  claret  plying 

Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

Living  short  hut  merry  lives, 

Going  where  the  devil  drives, 

Having  sweethearts,  hut  no  wives, 

Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

Racking  tenants,  stewards  teasing, 

Swiftly  spending,  slowly  raising, 

Wishing  to  spend  all  their  days  in 

Raking  as  at  Mallow. 

Then  to  end  this  raking  life 
They  get  sober,  take  a wife, 

Ever  after  live  in  strife, 

And  wish  again  for  Mallow. 


LAST  WISH. 

Francis  Davis. 

On  ! gather  me  the  flowers  fair, 

And.  strew  them  o’er  my  bed, 

They’ll  soothe  me,  mother,  while  I stay. 
They’ll  deck  me  when  I’m  dead ; 

But  throw  the  white  rose  far  away, 

For  Willie’s  brow  was  fair ; 

Nor  bring  the  leaf  of  golden  tint, 

To  tell  of  Willie’s  hair. 

I drew  the  curls  across  his  brow, 

My  heart  beat  quick  and  sore  ; 

I gazed  upon  that  frozen  smile 
’Till  I could  gaze  no  more  : 

And  when  I knelt  beside  his  grave, 

Fain,  fain  were  tears  to  flow  ; 

But  something  whisper’d  to  my  heart, 
You’ll  soon  be  full  as  low. 

Oh ! there’s  a spot  at  Devis’  foot 
Where  longer  lies  the  dew, 

And  there  are  daisies  purer  white, 

And  violets  deeper  blue ; 


348 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


Look  on  them  kindly  as  yon  pass, 

But  touch  no  flower  there, 

For  Willie  said  they  bloomed  for  him, 
To  twine  in  Annie’s  hair. 

Then  draw  the  curtains  closer  round, 
And  hide  from  me  the  skies ; 

I cannot  bear  that  sunny  blue, 

So  like  my  Willie’s  eyes  : 

And  raise  ye  up  this  swimming  head, 
My  last  dear  wish  to  crave  : 

Now  mother,  mother,  mind  ye  this — 
Lay  me  in  Willie’s  grave  ! 


THE  LAMENTATION  OF  HUGH  REYNOLDS. 

A Street  Ballad. 

The  Hugh  Reynolds,  who  is  the  hero  of  this  ballad  (which  is  clearly  genuine)  was  guilty 
of  abduction.  It  is  generally  believed,  in  Ireland,  that  abduction  is  an  offence  never  com- 
mitted without  an  implied  consent  on  the  part  of  the  woman,  and  sympathy  always  exists 
in  favour  of  the  criminal  who  is  brought  to  justice  by  the  woman  swearing  against  him 
afterwards,  on  his  trial,  as  it  appears  she  did  in  this  case. 

My  name  it  is  Hugh  Reynolds,  I come  of  honest  parents, 

Near  Cavan  I was  born,  as  plainly  you  may  see  ; 

By  loving  of  a maid,  one  Catherine  MacCabe, 

My  life  has  been  betrayed  ; she’s  a dear  maid  to  me.* 

The  country  were  bewailing  my  doleful  situation, 

But  still  I’d  expectation  this  maid  would  set  me  free  ; 

But,  oh ! she  was  ungrateful,  her  parents  proved  deceitful, 

And  though  I loved  her  faithful,  she’s  a dear  maid  to  me. 

Young  men  and  tender  maidens,  throughout  this  Irish  nation, 
Who  hear  my  lamentation,  I hope  you’ll  pray  for  me  ; 

The  truth  I will  unfold,  that  my  precious  blood  she  sold, 

In  the  grave  I must  lie  cold ; she’s  a dear  maid  to  me. 

For  now  my  glass  is  run,  and  the  hour  it  is  come, 

And  I must  die  for  love,  and  the  height  of  loyalty ; 

I thought  it  was  no  harm  to  embrace  her  in  my  arms, 

Or  take  her  from  her  parents ; but  she’s  a dear  maid  to  me. 

* This  phrase  must  be  taken  idiomatically.  As,  if  a man  were  killed  in  a fox  chase,  the 
Irish  peasant  would  say,  “ it  was  a dear  hunting  to  him  j”  so  Hugh  says  of  the  girl  that 
costs  him  his  life,  “She’s  a dear  maid  to  mo.” 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


349 


Adieu  my  loving  father,  and  you  my  tender  mother, 

Farewell  my  dearest  brother,  who  has  suffered  sore  for  me ; 

With  irons  I’m  surrounded,  in  grief  I lie  confounded, 

By  perjury  unbounded ; she’s  a dear  maid  to  me. 

Now,  I can  say  no  more ; to  the  Law-board  I must  go, 

There  to  take  the  last  farewell  of  my  friends  and  counterie ; 

May  the  angels,  shining  bright,  receive  my  soul  this  night, 

And  convey  me  into  Heaven  to  the  blessed  Trinity. 

I would  call  the  English  reader’s  attention  to  the  triple  rhymes  through  this  ballad, 
and  though  the  rhymes  be  not  always  perfect,  they  are  sufficiently  close  (vowel  rhymes) 
to  ring  on  the  ear.  The  word  in  the  first  line,  at  the  csesural  point,  rhymes  to  the  final 
word,  which  is  again  rhymed  to  at  the  csesural  point  of  the  second  or  alternate  line,  as 
thus : — 

“ The  truth  I will  un fold,  that  my  precious  blood  she  sold, 

In  the  grave  I must  lie  cold  ; she’s  a dear  maid  to  me.” 

If  the  rhymes  were  always  as  perfect  as  these,  any  one  conversant  with  metrical  structure 
will  see  that  they  might  be  given  in  three  separate  lines  with  an  alternate  fourth  and 
eighth;  but  as  that  would  tax  the  rhymer  too  heavily,  he  adopts  the  expedient  of  writing  a 
quatrain  of  which  only  the  second  and  fourth  lines  must  rhyme,  of  necessity,  leaving  him 
free  to  rhyme  as  often  and  as  closely  as  he  can,  throughout  the  first  and  third,  as  thus,  in 
the  first  verse : — 

“ By  loving  of  a maid,  one  Catherine  MacCuJe 

My  life  has  been  betrayed,  she’s  a dear  maid  tp  me.” 

It  is  with  a view  to  the  English  reader  I have  made  this  note,  and  given  an  example 
(once  for  all)  of  what  I have  spoken  of,  frequently,  in  this  volume,  as  a peculiarity  in 
genuine  Irish  songs.  The  Irish  reader,  I hope,  will  not,  therefore,  think  me  guilty  of  an 
editorial  intrusion,  and  mistake  an  intended  courtesy  for  a mere  impertinence. 


WILLY  REILLY. 

This  ballad  has  ever  been  a great  favourite  in  Ireland,  particularly  in  the  North,  where 
the  incident  is  said  to  have  occurred  on  which  it  is  founded;  and  as  the  hero  and  the  heroine 
were  of  different  religious  communions,  a certain  party  spirit  became  engaged  in  the  feelings 
excited  by  this  ballad,  which,  doubtless,  increased  its  popularity.  But,  setting  aside  any 
other  cause  than  its  own  intrinsic  qualities,  it  is  no  wonder  it  found  an  abiding  place  in 
the  hearts  of  the  people : it  is  full  of  tenderness,  and  has  great  dramatic  power. 

“ Oh  ! rise  up,  Willy  Reilly,  and  come  along  with  me, 

I mean  for  to  go  with  you  and  leave  this  counterie, 

To  leave  my  father’s  dwelling-house,  his  houses  and  free  land 
And  away  goes  Willy  Reilly  and  his  dear  Coolen  Baton  * 

They  go  by  hills  and  mountains,  and  by  yon  lonesome  plain, 
Through  shady  groves  and  valleys  all  dangers  to  refrain ; 

But  her  father  followed  after  with  a well-arm’d  band, 

And  taken  was  poor  Reilly  and  his  dear  Coolen  Bawn. 

* Fair  young  girl. 


350 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


It’s  home  then  she  was  taken,  and  in  her  closet  bound, 

Poor  Reilly  all  in  Sligo  jail  lay  on  the  stony  ground, 

’Till  at  the  bar  of  justice  before  the  Judge  he’d  stand, 

Por  nothing  hut  the  stealing  of  his  dear  Coolen  Bawn. 

“ Now,  in  the  cold,  cold  iron,  my  hands  and  feet  are  hound, 

I’m  handcuffed  like  a murderer,  and  tied  unto  the  ground, 

But  all  the  toil  and  slavery  I’m  willing  for  to  stand, 

Still  hoping  to  he  succoured  by  my  dear  Coolen  Bawn.” 

The  jailor’s  son  to  Reilly  goes,  and  thus  to  him  did  say, 

“Oh!  get  up,  Willy  Reilly,  you  must  appear  this  day, 

For  great  Squire  Foillard’s  anger  you  never  can  withstand, 

I’m  afear’df  you’ll  suffer  sorely  for  your  dear  Coolen  Bawn” 

Now  Willy’s  drest  from  top  to  toe  all  in  a suit  of  green, 

His  hair  hangs  o’er  his  shoulders  most  glorious  to  be  seen  ; 

He’s  tall  and  straight  and  comely  as  any  could  he  found, 

He’s  lit  for  Foillard’s  daughter,  was  she  heiress  to  a crown. 

“ This  is  the  news,  young  Reilly,  last  night  that  I did  hear, 

The  lady’s  oath  will  hang  you,  or  else  will  set  you  clear 
“ If  that  he  so,”  says  Reilly,  “ her  pleasure  I will  stand, 

Still  hoping  to  be  succoured  by  my  dear  Coolen  Bawn.” 

The  Judge  he  said,  “ This  lady  being  in  her  tender  youth, 

If  Reilly  has  deluded  her,  she  will  declare  the  truth 
Then,  like  a moving  beauty  bright  before  him  she  did  stand, 

“ You’re  welcome  there  my  heart’s  delight  and  dear  Coolen  Bawn.” 

“ Oh,  gentlemen,”  Squire  Foillard  said,  “ with  pity  look  on  me, 
This  villain  came  amongst  us  to  disgrace  our  family ; 

And  by  his  base  contrivances  this  villany  was  planned, 

If  I don’t  get  satisfaction  I’ll  quit  this  Irish  land.” 

The  lady  with  a tear  began,  and  thus  replied  she, — 

“The  fault  is  none  of  Reilly’s,  the  blame  lies  all  on  me ; 

I forced  him  for  to  leave  his  place  and  come  along  with  me, 

I loved  him  out  of  measure,  which  wrought  our  destiny.” 

Out  bespoke  the  noble  Fox, % at  the  table  he  stood  by, 

“ Oh!  gentlemen,  consider  on  this  extremity; 

To  hang  a man  for  love  is  a murder  you  may  see, 

So  spare  the  life  of  Reilly,  let  him  leave  this  counterie.” 

t Afraid.  Afeard  is  the  universal  pronunciation  of  this  word  among1  the  peasantry  in 
Ireland,  to  this  day,  and  is  hut  the  retention  of  the  old  English  mode : — witness  Shak* 
speare : — 

“ Eye,  my  Lord,  fye;— a soldier  and  afeard?” — Macbeth. 


J The  prisoner’s  counsel. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


351 


“ Good,  my  lord,  lie  stole  from  her,  her  diamonds  and  her  rings, 

Gold  watch  and  silver  buckles,  and  many  precious  things, 

Which  cost  me  in  bright  guineas  more  than  live  hundred  pounds, — 
I’ll  have  the  life  of  Iteilly  should  I lose  ten  thousand  pounds.” 

‘‘  Good,  my  lord,  I gave  them  him  as  tokens  of  true  love, 

And  when  we  are  a-parting  I will  them  all  remove, 

If  you  have  got  them,  Reilly,  pray  send  them  home  to  me.” 

“ I will,  my  loving  lady,  with  many  thanks  to  thee.” 

il  There  is  a ring  among  them  I allow  yourself  to  wear, 

With  thirty  locket  diamonds  well  set  in  silver  fair, 

And  as  a true-love-token  wear  it  on  your  right  hand, 

That  y ou’ll  think  on  my  poor  broken  heart  when  you’re  in  a foreign  land.” 

Then  out  spoke  noble  Fox,  11  You  may  let  the  prisoner  go, 

The  lady’s  oath  has  cleared  him,  as  the  jury  all  may  know  ; 

She  has  released  her  own  true  love,  she  has  renewed  his  name, 

May  her  honour  bright  gain  high  estate,  and  her  offspring  rise  to  fame  !’* 


SERENADE. 

J.  J.  C ALLAN  AN. 

The  blue  waves  are  sleeping, 

The  breezes  are  still, 

The  light  dews  are  weeping 
Soft  tears  on  the  hill. 

The  moon  in  mild  beauty 
Shines  brightly  above  ; 

Then  come  to  the  casement 
Oh ! Mary,  my  love. 

No  form  from  the  lattice 
Did  ever  recline 
Over  Italy’s  waters 

More  lovely  than  thine. 

Then  come  to  the  window, 

And  shed  from  above 
One  glance  from  thy  bright  eye — 
One  smile  of  thy  love. 

From  the  storms  of  this  world 
How  gladly  I’d  ffy 
To  the  calm  of  that  breast — 

To  the  heaven  of  that  eye. 

How  deeply  I love  thee 
’Twere  useless  to  tell, 

Farewell  then,  my  dear  one, 

My  Mary — farewell ! 


352 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONGS. 


SONGS  OF  OUB  LAND. 

Air,  “ Old  Langolee.” 

Songs  of  our  land,  ye  are  with,  us  for  ever : 

The  power  and  the  splendour  of  thrones  pass  away, 

But  yours  is  the  might  of  some  deep-rolling-  river, 

Still  flowing-  in  freshness  thro’  things  that  decay. 

Ye  treasure  the  voices  of  long -vanish’d  ages ; 

Like  our  time-honour’ d towers,  in  beauty  ye  stand ; 

Ye  bring  us  the  bright  thoughts  of  poets  and  sages, 

And  keep  them  among  us,  old  songs  of  our  land. 

The  bards  may  go  down  to  the  place  of  their  slumbers, 

The  lyre  of  the  charmer  be  hushed  in  the  grave, 

But  far  in  the  future  the  power  of  their  numbers 
Shall  kindle  the  hearts  of  our  faithful  and  brave. 

It  will  waken  an  echo  in  souls  deep  and  lonely, 

Like  voices  of  reeds  by  the  winter- wind  fanned ; 

It  will  call  up  a spirit  of  freedom,  when  only 

Her  breathings  are  heard  in  the  songs  of  our  land. 

For  they  keep  a record  of  those,  the  true-hearted, 

Who  fell  with  the  cause  they  had  vowed  to  maintain ; 

They  show  us  bright  shadows  of  glory  departed, 

Of  love  unrewarded,  and  hope  that  was  vain ; 

The  page  may  be  lost,  and  the  pen  long  forsaken, 

And  weeds  may  grow  wild  o’er  the  brave  heart  and  hand 

But  ye  are  still  left  when  all  else  hath  been  taken, 

Like  streams  in  the  desert — sweet  songs  of  our  land. 

Songs  of  our  land, — to  the  land  of  the  stranger 
Ye  followed  the  heart-broken  exile  afar ; 

Ye  went  with  the  wanderer  through  distance  and  danger, 
And  gladdened  his  desolate  path,  like  a star ; 

The  breath  of  his  mountains,  in  summers  long  vanished, 
And  visions  that  passed  like  a wave  from  the  strand, 

And  hope  for  his  country — the  joy  of  the  banished, 

Were  borne  to  him  oft  in  the  songs  of  our  land. 

When  spring-time  is  come,  with  its  fresh  burst  of  glory, 

To  bid  the  green  heart  of  the  forest  rejoice ; 

The  pine  of  the  mountain,  with  age  growing  hoary, 

In  lofty  solemnity  gives  forth  its  voice. 

So,  tuneful  thro’  ages,  the  harp  of  our  nation 

Hath  answered  with  pride  to  the  bard’s  gifted  hand, 

And,  breaking  the  silence  of  dark  desolation, 

Bids  us  love  and  exult  in  the  songs  of  our  land. 


APPENDIX 


SINCE  (XELIA’S  Mr  FOE,  p.  33. 


Song  to  “the  Ihish  Tune.” 


354 


APPENDIX. 


— g — gir=-g5--h-g  Z— g — gH-g — ^=~  1— * I :d  — i rf f 


-i- 


>■ 


lent-ing  than  her,  In  the  morn  - ing  a - dorn  - ing  each 


-I-?- 


~ ^ « SS  1 


-3- 


33= 


— y^~ 9 

i 


leaf  with 


~'zd~ 

tear. 


:3  i — ^ — a|  ~[ 

When  I make  my  sad 


wil  - low  will  fol  - low 


some  pi  - ti  - ful 


groan;  But  with 


si  - lent  dis  - dain  she  re-quites  all  my  pain,  To  my 


APPENDIX. 


355 


In  this  setting  of  the  air  those  conversant  with  Irish  music  will  perceive 
that  the  two  last  bars,  in  each  part,  were  Anglicized,  to  suit  the  taste  of  the 
time.  The  air  should  conclude  with  a triple  repetition  of  the  tonic — a charac- 
teristic feature  of  Irish  tunes.  Since  writing  the  introductory  note  (p.  38),  I 
have  ascertained  that  in  a manuscript  of  Music  for  the  Viol  de  Gramba,  formerly 
in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Andrew  Blaikie,  of  Paisley,  hearing  date  1692,  the 
tune  is  entitled  “King  James’s  March  to  Ireland .”  In  another,  dated 
1706,  which  was  recently  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  David  Laing,  (and  now  in 
that  of  Doctor  Rimbault,)  it  appears  as  King  James’s  March  to  Dublin  .” 
Now,  it  is  most  probable  that  King  James,  at  a time  when  it  was  so  im- 
portant to  him  to  excite  Irish  feeling,  would  employ  Irish  airs  on  his  Irish 
marches ; and  I think  it  may  be  said,  that,  when  the  earliest  known  Scottish 
settings  of  the  air  have  Ireland  and  Dublin  as  essential  points  of  the  title, 
Scottish  editors  might  have  paused  before  they  so  confidently  claimed  it. 
This  remark  is  not  unworthy  of  notice  as  collateral  evidence — if  collateral 
evidence  were  needed, — which  it  is  not ; for  the  fact  of  the  air  being  popular 
in  London,  as  “The  Irish  Tune,”  long  before  there  is  any  provable  trace 
of  it  in  Scotland,  conclusively  invalidates  the  Scottish  claim,  and  establishes, 
beyond  all  cavil,  the  right  of  Ireland  to  this  charming  melody. 


THE  WOODS  OP  CAILLINO,  p.  161. 

See  curious  note  to — p.  162.  Here  follow  the  notes  of  the  Shakspearian 
commentators. 

Prom  Malone's  Shakspeare.  Edited  by  Boswell. 

Pistol.  Quality?  Callino,  castore  me ! art  thou  a gentleman?* 

* Quality,  call  you  me  ? — Construe  me.]  The  old  copy  reads 
“ Quallitie  calmie  custure  me.” — Steevens. 

We  should  read  this  nonsense  thus : 

“ Quality,  cality — construe  me,  art  thou  a gentleman  ?” 
i.e.  tell  me,  let  me  understand  whether  thou  be’st  a gentleman.— Warburton. 

Mr.  Edwards,  in  his  MS.  notes,  proposes  to  read : 

“ Quality,  call  you  me  ? construe  me,”  &c.— Steevens. 


356 


APPENDIX. 


The  alteration  proposed  by  Mr.  Edwards  has  been  too  hastily  adopted.  Pistol,  who  does 
not  understand  French,  imagines  the  prisoner  to  be  speaking  of  his  own  quality.  The  line 
should  therefore  have  been  thus : 

“ Quality !— calmly  j construe  me,  art  thou  a gentleman  ?”— Ritson. 

The  words  in  the  folio  (where  alone  they  are  found) — “ Qualitee  calmie  custure  me,” 
appeared  such  nonsense,  that  some  emendation  was  here  a matter  of  necessity,  and  accord- 
ingly that  made  by  the  joint  efforts  of  Dr.  Warburton  and  Mr.  Edwards  has  been  adopted 
in  mine  and  the  late  editions.  But,  since,  I have  found  reason  to  believe  that  the  old  copy 
is  very  nearly  right,  and  that  a much  slighter  emendation  than  that  which  has  been  made 
will  suffice.  In  a book  entitled  “ A Handful  of  Plesent  Delites,  containing  sundrie  m w 
Sonets,  newly  devised  to  the  newest  Tunes,”  &c.,  by  Clement  Robinson  and  others,  16mo, 
1584,  is  “ a Sonet  of  a Lover  in  the  Praise  of  his  Lady,  to  Calen  o custure  me , sang  at  every 
line’s  end — 

When  as  I view  your  comely  grace,  Calen  o,  &c. 

Pistol,  therefore,  we  see,  is  only  repeating  the  burden  of  an  old  song,  and  the  words  should 
be  undoubtedly  printed — 

“ Quality ! Calen  o custure  me.  Art  thou  a gentleman  ?”  &c. 

He  elsewhere  has  quoted  the  old  ballad  beginning — 

“ Where  is  the  life  that  late  I led  ?” 

With  what  propriety  the  present  words  are  introduced,  it  is  not  necessary  to  inquire. 
Pistol  is  not  very  scrupulous  in  his  quotations. 

It  may  also  be  observed,  that  construe  me  is  not  Shakspeare’s  phraseology,  but— construe 
to  me.  So,  in  Twelfth-Night : — “ I will  construe  to  them  whence  you  come,”  &c. — Malone. 

Construe  me,  though  not  the  phraseology  of  our  author’s  more  chastised  characters, 
might  agree  sufficiently  with  that  of  Pistol.  Mr.  Malone’s  discovery  is  a very  curious  one, 
and  when  (as  probably  will  be  the  case)  some  further  ray  of  light  is  thrown  on  the  unin- 
telligible words,  Calen , &c.,  I will  be  the  first  to  vote  it  into  the  text. — Steevens. 

“Callino,  Custore  me”  is  an  old  Irish  song,  which  is  preserved  in  Playford’s  Musical 
Companion,  673: — 


Cantus  Primus. 


~7T  k/js  — ! ~) 3 — E — Zl d d — 

3— a— 

iJ3t- 5 'Ezjjp  - f # - jja-: 

ihp-Ak 

Cal  - li  - no,  cal  - li  - no,  cal  - li  - no  cas  - to  - re  me. 


1 1-]  t 1 1 

— — 

— — 

! |-r  . _~q~  q~~n ' 

KJ 

_ 

Lcji 

E - va  ee,  e - va  - ee,  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo,  lee. 


Cantus  Shcondus. 


’ZV 4 0 — — e — o £ ^P — f-® o — — tRt- 


Cal  - li  - no,  cal  - li  - no,  cal  - li  - no  cas  - to  - re  me. 


loo,  loo,  loo,  lee. 


APPENDIX. 


357 


Medius. 


- p— ^-f  :e=e— ^ j:j=i=*=  pj£»=<— irjfjiz 


Cal  - li  - no,  cal  - li  - no,  cal  - li  - no  cas  - to  - re  me. 

~ - j|-  <a  - F |^aT- 

ee,  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo, 


lT 1 1- 

E - va  ee, 

Bassus. 


22: 


e - va 


Cal  - li  - no,  cal  - li  r no,  cal  - li  - no  cas  - to  - re  me. 


E - va  eee,  e - va  cee,  loo,  loo,  loo,  loo,  lee. 


The  words,  as  I leam  from  Mr.  Finnegan,  master  of  the  school  established  in  London 
for  the  education  of  the  Irish  poor,  mean,  “ Little  girl  of  my  heart,  for  ever  and  ever.” 
They  have,  it  is  true,  no  great  connection  with  the  poor  Frenchman’s  supplications,  nor 
were  they  meant  to  have  any.  Pistol,  instead  of  attending  to  him,  contemptuously  hums  a 
song.— Boswell. 


From  J.  Payne  Colliee’s  Shaespeabe.  Extract. 

“ He  heard  the  French  soldier  speak  a foreign  jargon,  and  he  replied  by  the  first 

foreign  words  that  occurred  to  him,  being  the  Irish  burden  of  an  old  ballad.  Boswell 
pointed  out  the  air,  and  the  true  reading,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  the  doubt  as  to  an  expres- 
sion which  had  puzzled  commentators.” 


In  Chaeles  Knight’s  Shaespeabe  the  note  on  Calen  o,  &c.,  stands 
thus: — 

“In  the  folio  we  find  ‘Calmie  custure  me,’  which  has  been  turned,  in  the  modem 
editions,  into  * call  you  me  ?— construe  me.’  Malone  found  out  the  enigma.  In  ‘A  Hand- 
ful of  Pleasant  Delites’  ( 1584)  we  have  * Sundry  new  Sonets,  in  divers  kinds  of  meeter,  newly 
devised  to  the  newest  tunes  that  are  now  in  use  to  be  sung and  amongst  others,  ‘A  Sonet 
of  a Lover  in  the  praise  of  his  Lady ; to  “ Calen  0 custure  me sung  at  everie  line’s  end.’ 
When  the  French  soldier  says  Quali  te,  Pistol,  by  the  somewhat  similar  sound,  is 
reminded  of  the  song  of  Calen  o; — or,  as  it  is  given  in  Playford’s  ‘Musical  Companion,’ 
Calli- no.  Boswell,  who  gives  the  music  of  the  refrain,  which  he  says  means  ‘ Little  girl 
of  my  heart,  for  ever  and  ever,’  adds  that  the  words  * have  ho  great  connexion  with  the 
Frenchman’s  supplication.’ — Certainly  not.  But  the  similarity  of  sound,  as  in  subsequent 
cases,  suggested  the  words  to  Pistol.” 

In  Singee  and  Lloyd’s  Shaespeabe,  after  alluding  to  the  jargon  of  old 
copies,  the  note  proceeds  thus : — 

“ Malone  found  Calen  0 custure  me,  mentioned  as  the  burden  of  an  old  Irish  song,  which 
is  printed  in  ‘A  Handful  of  Plesent  Delites,’  1584.  And  Mr.  Boswell  discovered  that  it  is 
an  old  Irish  song,  which  is  printed  in  Playford’s  Musical  Companion,  1667  or  1673— 


358 


APPENDIX. 


‘Callino,  Callino,  Callino  castore  me, 

Eva  ee,  Eva  ee,  loo,  loo,  loo,  lee.’ 

The  words  are  said  to  mean,  ‘ Little  girl  of  my  heart,  for  ever  and  ever.’  They  have,”  &c. 
(quoting  what  is  already  quoted  before  from  Boswell.) 

In  all  these  foregoing  notes  it  will  he  perceived  that  the  gibberish, 
Callino , castore  me,  was  allowed  to  remain  gibberish  by  all  the  com- 
mentators up  to  the  present  time,  when  the  true  Irish  orthography  occurred 
to  me,  as  given  in  my  note  to  “ The  Woods  of  Caillino,”  p.  1G2. — Editor. 


Here  is  the  second  piece  of  music  referred  to  in  p.  1G3. 

CALLENO. 

From  Wm.  Ballett’s  Lute  Book.  D.  1.  21.  Trin.  Coll.  Dub. 
Given  in  modern  notation,  from  the  lute  tablature  of  the  original. 
Calleno.  L-l 


p§ 


—F—y-t-t — *-f=- 


:z:j— 

; „ ‘ • “ m 

"z«zzi:z«zi_aL:: 

1 * '*■-11 

In  the  first  four  bars  of  the  above,  there  is  a singular  likeness  to  the  air 
of  “ Malbrook.” 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Attempt  of  Doctor  Marshall  to  claim  the  authorship  of  the  ode,  alluded 
to  in  note,  p.  212.  Here  follows  the  parody  in  which  the  Doctor  is 
quizzed : — 

PARODY 

ON  THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

“Not  a drum  was  heard.” 

Not  a sous  had  he  got — not  a guinea  or  note. 

And  he  look’d  confoundedly  flurried, 

And  he  bolted  away  without  paying  his  shot. 

And  the  landlady  after  him  hurried. 

We  saw  him  again  at  dead  of  night, 

When  home  from  the  club  returning ; 

We  tmgg’d  the  Doctor  beneath  the  light 
Of  the  gas-lamp  brilliantly  burning. 


APPENDIX. 


359 


As  bare  and  exposed  to  the  midnight  dews, 

Reclin’d  in  the  gutter  we  found  him ; 

And  he  look’d  like  a gentleman  taking  a snooze, 

With  his  Marshall  cloak  around  him. 

“ The  Doctor’s  as  drunk  as  the  D ,”  we  said. 

And  we  managed  a shutter  to  borrow ; 

We  rais’d  him,  and  sigh’d  at  the  thought  that  his  head 
Would  consumedly  ache  on  the  morrow! 

We  bore  him  home,  and  we  put  him  to  bed. 

And  we  told  his  wife  and  daughter 

To  give  him,  next  morning,  a couple  of  red- 
Herrings  and  soda  water. 

Loudly  they  talk’d  of  his  money  that’s  gone. 

And  his  lady  began  to  upbraid  him ; 

But  little  he  reck’d,  so  they  let  him  snore  on, 

’Neath  the  counterpane,  just  as  we  laid  him ! 

We  tuck’d  him  in,  and  had  hardly  done 
When,  beneath  the  window  calling, 

We  heard  the  rough  voice  of  a son-of-a-gun 
Of  a watchman  “ one  o’clock”  bawling ! 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  walked  down 
From  his  room  in  the  uppermost  story ; 

A rush-light  we  plac’d  on  the  cold  hearth-stone, 

, And  left  him  alone  in  his  glory ! 


It  is  a strong  proof  of  the  interest  excited  by  the  ode,  that,  forty -three 
years  after  the  event  it  celebrated,  questions  were  asked  as  to  truth  of  the 
details  of  the  funeral.  The  Rev.  H.  J.  Symons,  who  performed  the  funeral 
service,  answers : 

The  Burial  or  Sir  Johh  Moore.  — It  had  been  generally  supposed  that  the 
interment  of  General  Sir  John  Moore,  who  fell  at  the  Battle  of  Corunna,  in  1809,  took 
place  during  the  night ; a mistake  which,  doubtless,  arose  from  the  justly-admired  lines  by 
Wolfe  becoming  more  widely  known  and  remembered  than  the  official  account  of  this 
interesting  event  in  the  Narrative  of  the  Campaign,  by  the  brother  of  Sir  John  Moore. 
In  Wolfe’s  monody  the  hero  is  represented  to  have  been  buried 

“ By  the  straggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lanterns  dimly  burning.” 

an  error  of  description  which  has,  doubtless,  been  extended  by  many  pictorial  illustrations 
of  the  sad  scene.  Thus  the  matter  rested,  until  in  Notes  and  Queries,  for  June  19,  1852,  a 
correspondent  inquired  whether  it  was  a matter  of  fact  that  they  buried  Moore  “ darkly 
at  dead  of  night,”  which  produced  a reply  from  the  Rev.  H.  J.  Symons,  Vicar  of  Hereford, 
the  clergyman  on  that  memorable  occasion,  and  who  relates: — “I  was  Chaplain  to  the 
brigade  of  Guards  attached  to  the  army  under  the  command  of  the  late  Sir  John  Moore : 
and  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  attend  him  in  his  last  moments.  During  the  battle  he  was  conveyed 
from  the  field  by  a sergeant  of  the  42nd,  and  some  soldiers  of  that  regiment  and  of  the 
Guards,  and  I followed  them  into  the  quarters  of  the  General,  on  the  quay  at  Corunna, 
where  he  was  laid  on  a mattress  on  the  floor ; and  I remained  with  him  till  his  death, 
when  I was  kneeling  by  his  side.  After  which  it  was  the  subject  of  deliberation  whether 


360 


APPENDIX. 


his  corpse  should  be  conveyed  to  England,  or  be  buried  on  the  spot ; which  was  not  deter- 
mined before  I left  the  General’s  quarters.  I resolved,  therefore,  not  to  embark  with  the 
troops,  but  remained  on  shore  till  the  morning,  when,  on  going  to  his  quarters,  I found 
that  his  body  had  been  removed  during  the  night  to  the  quarters  of  Colonel  Graham,  in 
the  citadel,  by  the  officers  of  his  staff,  from  whence  it  was  borne  by  them,  assisted  by 
myself,  to  the  grave  which  had  been  prepared  for  it  on  one  of  th  e bastions  of  the  citadel. 
It  being  now  daylight,  the  enemy  discovered  that  the  troops  had  been  withdrawing  and 
embarking  during  the  night.  A fire  was  opened  by  them  shortly  after  upon  the  ships 
which  were  still  in  the  harbour.  The  funeral  service  was,  therefore,  performed  without 
delay,  as  we  were  exposed  to  the  fire  of  the  enemy's  guns ; and  after  having  shed  a tear 
over  the  remains  of  the  departed  General,  whose  body  we  wrapt 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him, 

there  having  been  no  means  to  provide  a coffin — the  earth  closed  upon  him,  and 
We  left  him  alone  with  his  glory!” 

The  following  are  the  names  of  the  officers  who  were  present,  and  who  assisted  to  bear  the 
body  of  Sir  John  Moore  to  his  grave  : — Lord  Lynedoch  (then  Colonel  Graham) ; Lord 
Seaton  (then  Major  Colbome) ; General  (then  Colonel)  Anderson : Major  (now  General) 
Sir  C.  Napier;  Captains  (now  Colonels)  Percy  and  Stanhope;  and  Rev.  II.  J.  Symons,  A.M., 
Chaplain  to  the  Guards,  by  whom  the  funeral  service  was  performed.  This  interesting 
notification  of  what  might  hereafter  have  passed  for  historic  fact  has  lately  been  quoted  in 
a review  of  a sermon  preached  last  year  before  the  Camp  at  Aldershott,  by  the  Chaplain,  to 
whose  lot  it  fell  “to  attend  that  lamented  General,  Sir  John  Moore,  in  his  last  moments 
— to  assist  in  bearing  his  body  to  the  grave — and  to  perform  the  funeral  service  over  his 
remains.” 

While  this  volume  was  in  the  course  of  compilation,  and  a few  days  after 
the  above  note  had  been  selected  for  use,  it  was  almost  startling  to  see  that 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Symons  himself  was  no  more. 

SUDDEN  DEATHS. 

Op  a Clergyman  in  a Railway  Carriage.— The  sudden  death  of  H.  J.  Symons, 
LL.D.,  who  has  for  the  last  few  months  been  officiating  at  Pelham,  near  Gainsborough, 
during  the  absence  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Doherty,  took  place  on  the  21st  inst.,  in  a railway 
carriage.  The  deceased  took  a ticket  at  Blyton,  distance  about  a quarter  of  a mile  from  his 
residence,  by  the  8.45  train  for  Gainsborough.  In  order  to  reach  the  station,  however, 
before  the  arrival  of  the  train,  he  had,  it  would  seem,  exerted  himself  very  much,  for  when 
he  entered  the  carriage  he  was  noticed,  by  some  of  the  passengers,  to  be  in  a state  of 
apparently  complete  exhaustion.  He  requested  a gentleman  who  was  sitting  next  the  door 
to  change  places  with  him,  saying  at  the  same  time  he  felt  hot,  and  wished  to  get  a little 
air.  This  request  being  immediately  acceded  to,  the  worthy  doctor  took  up  his  position 
near  the  window.  Very  soon  after  the  deceased’s  face  was  observed  to  assume  a very  unna- 
tural appearance,  and  just  as  the  train  reached  the  Spital-road  bridge  he  gave  one  deep- 
drawn  gasp— his  head  fell  upon  his  breast— the  breath  of  life  fled — the  relentless  hand  of 
death  seized  upon  him,  and  he  was  a corpse.  As  soon  as  the  train  arrived  at  the  Gains- 
borough station  the  utmost  despatch  was  used  in  getting  the  body  from  the  train,  and  in 
sending  for  a doctor.  Dr.  Duigan  was  promptly  on  the  spot,  but  pronounced  life  to  be 
quite  extinct.  He  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  death  had  resulted  from  disease  of  the  heart, 
accelerated  by  undue  exertion.  Deceased  was  a late  fellow  of  St.  John’s  College,  Oxford. 
He  was  also  late  vicar  of  Hereford,  and  chaplain  to  her  Majesty’s  Forces  and  to  the  late 
Dukes  of  Kent  and  Cambridge.  Deceased  read  the  funeral  service  at  the  burial  of  the 
celebrated  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna.— Observer,  March  29th,  1857. 


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and  back.  Price  One  Dollar.  Giving  Reasons  for  hundreds  of  interesting  facts 
in  connection  with  Zoology,  and  throwing  alight  upon  the  peculiar  habits  and  in- 
stincts of  the  various  Orders  of  the  Animal  Kingdom. 

EXAMPLE. 

Why  do  dogs  turn  around  two  or  three  times  before  they  lie  down  7 
Why  do  birds  often  roost  upon  one  leg  7 
This  volume  answers  about  1,500  similar  questions. 


THE  FOLLOWING  BOOKS  OF  THIS  SERIES  ARE  IN  TRESS,  AND  WILL  BE 
ISSUED  IN  RAPID  SUCCESSION. 


The  Denominational  Reason  Why. 
The  Gardener’s  and  Farmer’s  Reason 
Why, 

The  Housekeeper’s  Reason  Why. 
The  Botanical  Reason  Why. 


The  Geological  Reason  Why. 
The  Astronomical  Reason  Why. 
The  Chemical  Reason  Why. 

The  Grammatical  Reason  Why. 


The  Reason  Why:  Natural  History. 

J.Y  THE  AUTHOR  OF  “INQUIRE  WITHIN,”  “THE  BIBLICAL  REASON  WHY.” 
“REASON  WHY  OF  GENERAL  SCIENCE.”  “THAT’S  IT,  OR, 

PLAIN  TEACHINGS,”  Ac.,  Ac. 

Profusely  Illustrated.  12mo,  Cloth,  Gilt  Side  and  Back.  Price  $1. 

Giving  reasons  for  hundreds  of  interesting  facts  in  connection  with  Zoology,  and 
throwing  a light  upon  the  peculiar  habits  and  instincts  of  the  various  Orders  of  the 
Animal  Kingdom. 

EXAMPLE. 


U hy  has  the  lion  such  a large  mane  ? 

Why  does  the  otter , when  hunting  for  fish,  swim 
against  the  stream  ? 

Why  do  dogs  turn  around  two  or  three  times 
before  they  lie  down  ? 

Why  have  flat  fishes  their  upper  sides  darlc,  and 
their  under  sides  white  ? 

Why  do  sporting  dogs  make  what  is  termed  1 ‘ a 
point  ?" 


Why  do  birds  often  roost  upon  one  leg  ? 

Why  do  frogs  keep  their  mouths  closed  while 
breathing  ? 

Why  do  cats,  when  being  played  with,  lie  on 
their  baclcs,  seize  the  hand  of  the  person  play- 
ing with  them  with  their  fore  paws,  and  strike 
withtheir  hind  feet  ? 

Why  does  the  wren  build  several  nests,  but  occu- 
pies only  one  ? 

This  volume  answers  about  1500  similar  questions. 


The  Corner  Cupboard ; or,  Facts  for  Everybody. 

By  the  Author  of  “Inquire  Within “The  Reason  Why,”  &c. 

Large  12mo,  400  pages,  Cloth,  <£ilt  Side  and  Back:,  Illustrated  with 
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Embracing  Facts  about  I.  Things  not  generally  known,  II.  Things  that  ought  to 
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A Complete  Lady's  Book. 

A Complete  Gentleman' s Book. 

A Comp  lete  Boy' s Book. 

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| A Complete  Amusement  Book. 

A Friend  at  Everybody' s Elbow  in  Time  of  Need. 

It  tells  about  the  food  we  consume,  the  clothes  we  wear,  the  house  we  live  in,  and  facts  from  the  Arts 
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Family’s  Ready  Adviser. 


A Complete  Confectioner. 

A Complete  Cook. 

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10,000  WONDERFUL  THINGS. 

Comprising  the  Marvellous  and  Rare,  Odd,  Curious,  Quaint,  Eccentric  and  Extraordi- 
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ders of  the  World,  enriched  with  Hundreds  of  Authentic  Illustrations. 

j EDITED  BY  EDMUND  FILLINGHAM  KING,  M.  A. , AUTHOR  OF  ‘ ‘LIFE  OF  NEWTON,  ’ ’ AC. 

12mo,  Cloth,  Gilt  Side  and  Back.  Price  One  Dollar. 

| Iu  the  present  work,  interesting  scenes  from  Nature,  curiosities  of  art,  costume,  and  customs  of  a by- 
; gone  period,  rather  predominate  ; but  we  have  devoted  many  of  its  pages  to  descriptions  of  remarkable 
occurrences,  beautiful  landscapes,  stupendous  waterfalls,  and  sublime  sea  pieces.  It  contains  not  a 
line  that  the  nicest  judgment  could  pronounce  obnoxious  ; and  yet,  in  every  page  is  amass  of  material 
t > create  both  surprise  and  laughter.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  volume  through,  without  feeling,  not 
only  that  you  have  been  well  entertained,  but  well  instructed. 

EK5"*  Copies  of  either  of  the  above  books  sent  to  any  address  in  the  United  States  or 
Catiada,  free  of  postage.  Send  cash  orders  to 

DICK  & FITZGERALD,  18  Ann  Street,  New  York. 


The  Reason  Why: 

GENERAL  SCIENCE. 

A CAREFUL  COLLECTION  OF 

Some  Thousands  of  Reasons 

FOR  THINGS  WHICH,  THOUGH  GENERALLY  KNOWN.  ARE  IMPERFECTLY  UNDERSTOOD. 

§1,  IjJoroh  of  (ftcohmscb  Scientific  fvnolnlcbge  for  the  fftillion. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  “INQUIRE  WITHIN.” 


“ What  ‘ Haydn’s  Dictionary  of  Dates'  is  in  regard  to  historical  events,  this  wonderful  hook  is  in  ! 

respect  to  scientific  facts.  The  plan  of  the  book,  and  its  execution,  leave  nothing  to  he  desired.”  | 

^Church  of  England  Monthly  Review. 

This  Work  assigns  Reasons  for  the  thousands  of  things  that  daily  fall  under  the  j 

eye  of  the  intelligent  observer,  and  of  which  he  seeks  a simple  and"  clear  explana- 
tion. 

EXAMPLE. 


Why  does  silver  tarnish  when  exposed  to 
light? 

Why  do  some  colors  fade,  and  others  darken, 
when  exposed  to  the  sun  ? 

What  develops  electricity  in  the  clouds  ? 


Why  does  lightning  sometimes  appear  red, 
at  others  yeilow,  at  others  white  ? 

Why  does  dew  form  round  drops  on  the 
leaves  of  plants  ? » 

AVhy  is  the  sky  blue  ? 


This  volume  answers  1,325  similar  questions. 

“ The  Reason  Why”  is  a handsome  12mo.  volume,  of  356  pages,  printed  on  fine 
paper,  bound  in  cloth,  gilt,  and  embellished  with  a large  number  of  Wood  Cuts, 
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PRICE  OISTE  DOLLAR. 


Copies  Mailed  to  any  address  in  the  United  States  or  Canada,  free  of  postage. 


Live  and  Learn; 

A GUIDE  TO  ALL  WHO  WISH  TO 

SPEAK  AND  WRITE  CORRECTLY, 

Particularly  intended  as  a book  of  reference  for  the  solution  of  difficulties  connected 
with  Grammar,  Composition,  Punctuation,  &c.,  with  explanations  of  Latin  and 
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ONE  THOUSAND  MISTAKES 

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“ Such  a hook  as  this  has  long  been  wan  ted  by  those  who  entertain  the  wish  alluded  to  in  the  title. 
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be  generally  consulted.  The  work  is  altogether  useful  and  indispensable.”  I Tribune. 

GIG  Pages,  LoancL  in.  Clotli,  12mo. 

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The  Secret  Out; 

OR, 

1,000  TRICKS  WITH  CARDS  AND  OTHER  RECREATIONS. 

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A PRIVATE  GUIDE  IN  ALL  MATTERS  OE  LAW, 

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fers of  Property,  Deeds  of  Gift,  Annuities,  Articles  of  Separation,  False 
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THE  BOOK  OK 

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THE  LADY’S  MANUAL  OF  FANCY  WORK : 

A COMPLETE  INSTRUCTOR  IN 

EYEEY  VARIETY  OF  ORNAMENTAL  NEEDLE-WORK. 

Including  Applique,  Bead-Work,  Berlin-Work,  Braiding,  Bobbin-Work,  Cro-  ; 
chet,  Embroidery,  Golden  Tapestry,  Knitting,  Knotting,  Lace-Work, 
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advice  on  making  up  and  trimming ; a catalogue  of  articles  suitable  for 
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German  terms  used  in  needle-work,  not  to  be  found  in  any  dictionary.  The 
whole  being  a complete  Lexicon  of  Fancy  Needle-Work.  By  Mrs.  Pullan, 
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experienced, from  the  pea  of  one  of  the  ablest  of  needle-women  of  the 
present  age.  

ANECDOTES  OF  LOVE: 

Being  a True  Account  of  the  Most  Remarkable  Events  connected  with  the 
History  of  Love  in  all  Ages,  and  among  all  Nations.  By  Lola  Montez, 
Countess  of  Landsfeldt.  Large  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1. 

These  romantic  and  surprising  anecdotes  really  contain  all  of  the  most 
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tories embraced  in  this  volume,  it  really  contains  a great  deal  of  valuable 
historic  lore,  which  is  not  to  be  found  except  by  reading  through  interminable  j 
volumes. 

The  subject  of  Love  is  one  of  those  which  has  deeply  interested  mankind 
in  all  ages.  History  overflows,  therefore,  with  the  romance  and  reality  of 
Love,  which  only  needs  a judicious  pen  to  place  them  modestly  before  the 
mind,  to  arrest  the  general  attention  and  admiration.  That  accomplished 
lady,  Madame  Lola  Montez,  with  the  tact  which  belongs  peculiarly  to  the 
feminine  nature,  especially  when  imbued  with  the  necessary  information  and 
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volume  before  us.  Her  acute  perception  of  the  proprieties  of  language  is 
here  as  wonderfully  exhibited  as  her  delicate  taste  in  selecting  those  features 
in  the  sensation  side  of  love  life,  which  most  deserve  the  immortalization  of 
literarv  embalmment. 

8 


Let  those  now  laugh  who  Dever  laughed  before, 

And  those  who  always  laughed  now  laugh  the  more." 


The  Harp  of  a Thousand  Strings; 

OB, 

LAUGHTER  FOR  A LIFETIME. 

Contains  more  than  a Million  Laughs,  is  crowded  full  of  Funny  Stories,  and  is 
illustrated  with  over  Two  Hundred  Comical  Engravings.  Bound  in  fancy 
gilt  covers,  suitable  for  the  library  or  the  center-table.  Price  $1.25. 

This  curious  book  combines  the  elements  of  fun,  pathos,  and  rare  entertain- 
ment, with  the  most  laughable  conceits  imaginable — the  whole  being  inter- 
larded with  rich  and  ludicrous  incidents,  pertaining  to  every-day  life.  In  short, 
if  you  want  something  to  “ drive  away  dull  care,”  this  is  just  it. 

If  you  are  one  whose  disposition’s  sour, 

Look  at  this  book — ’twill  cure  you  in  an  hour  ; 

You’ll  laugh  so  loud,  so  heartily  and  jolly, 

That  you’ll  forget  you  e’er  was  melancholy. 

The  pictures  are  all  original,  designed  by  some  of  our  best  artists  (including 
Darley),  and  the  collection  of  droll  conceits  and  queer  stories  is  unsurpassed, 
having  been  several  years  in  preparation.  It  is  a book  of  nearly  four  hundred 
pages,  with  tinted  frontispiece,  by  Darley. 


THE  DICTIONARY  OF  LOVE: 


Containing  a Definition  of  all  the  Terms  used  in  the  History  of  the  Tender 
Passion,  with  Rare  Quotations  from  the  Ancient  and  Modern  Poets  of  all 
Nations ; together  with  Specimens  of  curious  Model  Love-Letters,  and 
many  other  interesting  matters,  appertaining  to  Love,  never  before  pub- 
lished ; the  whole  forming  a remarkable  Text-Book  for  all  Loves,  as  well  as 
a Complete  Guide  to  Matrimony,  and  a Companion  of  Married  Life.  Trans- 
lated, in  part,  from  the  French,  Spanish,  German  and  Italian,  with  several 
Original  Translations  from  the  Greek  and  Latin.  By  Theockatus,  Junior. 
12mo,  gilt  side  and  back.  Price  $1. 


The  Bordeaux  Wine  and  Liquor  Dealers’  Guide : 

A TREATISE  ON  THE 

MANUFACTURE  AND  ADULTERATION  OF  LIQUORS. 

By  a Practical  Liquor  Manufacturer.  12mo,  cloth.  Price  $1.50. 

In  this  work  not  one  article  in  the  smallest  degree  approximating  to  a poi- 
son is  recommended,  and  yet  the  book  teaches  how  Cognac  Brandy,  Scotch 
and  Irish  Whisky,  Foreign  and  Domestic  Rum,  all  kinds  of  Wines,  Cordials, 

&c.,  from  the  choicest  to  the  commonest,  can  be  imitated  to  that  perfection  that 
the  best  judges  cannot  dectect  the  method  of  manufacture,  even  by  chemi- 
cal tests  of  the  severest  character ! The  author,  after  telling  what  each 
liquid  is  composed  of,  furnishes  a formula  for  making  its  exact  counterpart 
— exact  in  everything ! Each  formula  is  comprehensive — no  one  can  mis- 
understand it.  The  ingredients  are  specifically  named,  and  the  quantity  ! 
required  of  each,  distinctly  set  forth.  With  this  book  in  his  hand,  any  dealer  , 
j can  manufacture  his  own  liauor,  at  a saving  of  from  500  to  600  cent.  I 


| JUDGE  HALIBUMM’S  WORKS. 

“ Tne  writings  oi  Judge  Haliburton  have  long  been  regarded  as  the  produc- 
tion of  the  finest  humorist  that  has  ever  attempted  the  delineation  of  Yankee 
character,  and  these  entertaining  works  before  us  show  that  he  has  lost  none 
of  his  original  wit  and  humor.  It  will  be  difficult  to  find  volumes  so  full  of 
fun  and  good  sense  as  those  which  chronicle  the  experience  of  Sam  Slick.”— 
Commercial  Advertiser. 


SAM  SLICK’S 

Sayings  and  Doings. 

Since  Sam  Slick’s  first  work,  he  has 
written  nothing  so  fresh,  racy,  and  gen- 
uinely humorous  as  this.  Every  line 
of  it  tells,  some  way  or  other — instruc- 
tively, satirically,  jocosely  or  wittily. 
Admiration  at  Sam’s  mature  talents, 
and  laughter  at  his  droll  yarns,  con- 
stantly alternate  as  with  unhalting 
avidity  we  peruse  this  last  volume  of 
his.  In  every  page  the  Clockmaker 
proves  himself  the  fastest  time-killer  a- 
going.  We  give  the  titles  of  some  of 
the  articles  in  this  capital  work : 

The  Duke  of  Kent’s  Lodge  ; Playing 
a Card ; Behind  the  Scenes ; The  Black 
Brother ; The  Great  Unknown  ; Snub- 
bing a Snob  ; Patriotism,  or,  The  Two 
Shears;  Too  Knowing  by  Half;  Matri- 
mony; The  Wooden  Horse;  The  Bad 
Shilling ; Trading  in  Bed  ; Knowing  the 
Soundings,  or,  Polly  Coffin’s  Sandhole ; 
An  Old  Friend  with  a New  Face  ; The 
Unburieu  One  ; Definition  of  a Gentle- 
man ; Looking  Up ; The  Old  Minister  ; 
The  Barrel  Without  Hoops ; Facing  a 
Woman ; The  Attache.* 

THE  SAYINGS  & DOINGS 

Of  tho  Yankee  Clockmaker  are  issued 
in  one  elegant  volume,  neatly  bound  in 
muslin.  Price  $1  00 ; in  Paper,  50 
cents.  Sent  Free  of  Postage.  Buy  it, 
and  if  you  don’t  laugh,  then  there  is  no 
laugh  in  you. 

SAM  SLICK 

IN  SEARCH  OF  A WIFE. 

Everybody  has  heard  of  “ Sam  Slick, 
the  Clockmaker,”  and  he  has  given  his 
opinion  on  almost  everything.  This 
book  ci  ntains  his  opinion  about 
COURTIN  THE  GALS, 


And  his  laughable  adventures  after  tho 
petticoats.  Buy  this  book  if  you  want 
many  good  hearty  laughs.  There  is  a 
book  called  “ The  Horse,”  and  another 
“ The  Cow,”  and  “ The  Dog,”  and  so 
on  ; why  should’nt  there  be  one  on 
“ The  Gals  !”  They  are  about  the  most 
difficult  to  choose  and  to  manage  of  any 
created  critter,  and  there  ain’t  any  de- 
pendable directions  about  pickin’  and 
choosin’  of  them.  Is  it  any  wonder 
then  so  many  fellows  get  taken  in  when 
they  go  for  to  swap  hearts  with  them. 
12mo.  Paper,  50  cents.  Cloth,  $1  00. 


SAM  SLICK’S 
Nature  and  Human  Nature. 

This  is  the  most  amusing  and  witty 
collection  of  the  Opinions,  Sayings,  and 
Doings  of  the  famous  Sam  Slick,  that 
has  been  published.  It  gives  the  expe- 
riences of  the  Yankee  Clockmaker,  and 
the  incidents  that  occurred  in  his  jour- 
neyings  over  the  world,  together  with 
his  Observations  on  Men  and  Things  in 
General ; also  containing  his  Opinions 
on  Matrimony.  Paper,  50  cents.  Cloth, 
$1  00. 

THE  ATTACHE ; 

OR,  SAM  SLICK  IN  ENGLAND. 

“ Since  Sam  Slick’s  first  work,  he  has 
written  nothing  so  fresh,  racy  and  genu- 
inely humorous  as  this.  Every  line  oi 
it  tells,  some  way  or  other— instructive- 
ly, satirically,  jocosely,  or  wittily.”— 
London  Observer. 

“We  sincerely  pity  the  man  who  can- 
not find  in  it  the  'materials  for  the 
loosening  of  several  of  his  coffin  nails. 
It  is  full  of  oddity  and  fun,  and  must 
sell  like  new  tomatoes.” — Buffalo  Ex- 
press. Large  12mo.  Paper,  price  50 
cents.  Cloth,  $1  00. 


Copies  of  either  of  the  above  popular  books  sent  to  any  address,  free  of 
postage.  Send  cash  orders  to 

DICK  & FITZGERALD, 

Ko.  18  Ann  Street,  New  York. 


DICK  & FITZGERALD’S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 

Judge  Halibur ton’s 
Works. 

Sam  Slick  in  Search  of  a Wife. 

12mo.,  Paper  - $0  50 

Cloth, price  1 00 

Everybody  has  heard  of  “Sam  Slick, 
the  Clockmaker,”  and  he  has  given  his 
opinion  on  almost  everything.  This 
book  contains  his  opinion  about  ilCour- 
tin  the  Gals !”  and  his  laughable  ad- 
ventures after  the  petticoats.  Buy 
this  book  if  you  want  many  good 
he  irty  laughs.  There  is  a book  called 
‘‘The  Horse,”  and  another  “The  Cow,” 
and  “The  Dog,”  and  so- on  j why  ... 
shouldn’t  there  be  one  oh  ‘"‘The  Gals  ?” 

They  are  about  the  most  difficult  to 
choose  and  to  manage  of  any  created 
critter,  and  there  aint  any  dependable 
directions  ahgiLt^|ial|u^aiidM6bASSW’ 

of  them.  inriRR < Mnrr  m 

many  fellow!?gefl®TOWm 
go  for  to  swap  hearts  with  them  ? 

Sam  Slick’s  Nature  and  Human 

Nature.  Large  12mo.,  Paper  - 50 

Cloth  ....  price  1 00 

The  Attache  ; or,  Sam  Slick  in  Eng- 
land. Large  12mo.,  Paper  - - 50 

Cloth price  100 

Sam  Slick’s  Savings  and  Doings. 
Paper  - - - - - - 60 

Cloth  -----  price  1 00 
This  is  the  most  amusing  collection 
of  the  Opinions,  Sayings  and  Doings 
of  the  famous  Sam  Slick,  that  has  ever 
been  published.  It  gives  the  experi- 
ences of  the  Yankee  Clockmaker,  and 
the  incidents  that  occurred  in  his  jour- 
neyings  over  the  world,  together  with 
his  observations  on  men  and  things  in 
general;  also  containing  his  opinions 
on  Matrimony. 

Miscellaneous  Books. 

Courtship  Made  Easy ; or,  the 

Mysteries  of  Making  Love  Fully 
Explained.  With  specimen  Love 
Letters.  Containing  also  a Treatise 
on  the  general  qualifications  neces- 
sary for  Marriage,  and  the  proper 
age  and  condition  for  Wedlock,  &c. 

By  Harry  Hazen,  Jr.,  a widower 
who  has  been  thrice  married,  but  is 
still  young  enough  to  be  an  especial 
favorite  of  the  ladies.  - - price  13 

The  Ladies’  Love  Oracle ; or,  Coun- 
selor to  the  Fair  Sex.  Being  a com- 
plete Fortune  Teller  and  Interpreter 
to  all  questions  upon  the  different 

events  and  situations  of  life,  but 
more  especially  relating  to  all  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  Love,  ! 

Courtship  and  Marriage.  By  Madam 
Le  Marchand.  Illustrated  cover, 
printed  in  colors.  - - price  $0  25 

Chesterfield’s  Art  of  Letter-writing 

Simplified.  A Guide  to  Friendly, 
Affectionate,  Polite  and  Busines  Cor- 
respondence. - - - price  13 

Containing  a large  collection  of  the 
most  valuable  information  relative  to 
the  Art  of  Letter- Writing,  with  clear 
and  complete  instructions  howto  begin 
and  end  Correspondence,  Rules  for 
Punctuation  apd  Spelling,  &c., together 
with  numerous  examples  of  Letters 
and  Notes  on  every  subject  of  Episto- 
lary intercourse,  with  several  Impor- 
tant Hints  on  Love  Letters. 

The  Laws  of  Love.  A Complete 

Wmm*  12m°'  25 

Containing  concise  rules  for  the  con- 
duct of  Courtship  through  its  entire 
progress,  aphorisms  of  love,  rules  for 
telling  the  characters  and  dispositions 
of  women,  remedies  for  love,  and  an 
Epistolary  Code. 

Gamblers’  Tricks  with  Cards  Ex- 
posed and  Explained.  By  J.  H. 
Green,  Reformed  Gambler.  12mo. 
Paper.  - - - - price  25 

This  work  contains  one  hundred 
tricks  with  cards,  explained,  and  shows 
the  numerous  cheats  which  Gamblers 
practice  upon  their  unwary  dupes. 

The  uninitiated  will  stare  when  they 
here  see  how  easily  they  can  be  swin- 
dled by  dealing,  cutting,  and  shuffling 
cards. 

How  to  Win  and  How  to  Woo ; 

Containing  Rules  for  the  Etiquette 
of  Courtship,  with  directions  show- 
ing how  to  win  the  favor  of  Ladies, 
how  to  begin  and  end  a Courtship, 
and  how  Love  Letters  should  be 
written.  - - - price  13 

Bridal  Etiquette;  A Sensible  Guide 

to  the  Etiquette  and  Observances  of 
the  Marriage  Ceremonies  ; contain- 
ing complete  directions  for  Bridal 
Receptions,  and  the  necessary  rules 
for  bridesmaids,  groomsmen,  send- 
ing cards,  &c.,  &c.  - - price  13 

How  to  Behave ; or,  The  Spirit  of 

Etiquette : A complete  guide  to 
Polite  Society,  for  Ladies  and  Gentle- 
men ; containing  rules  for  good  be- 
havior at  the  dinner  table,  in  the 
parlor,  and  in  the  street;  with  im- 
portant hints  on  introduction,  and 
the  art  of  conversation.  - price  13 

Any  Book  on  this  List  will  be  sent  to  any  address  in  the  United  States  or  Canada, 
Free  of  Postage.  Seqd  Cash  Orders  to  DICK  & FITZGERALD,  18  Ann  St.,  N.  Y. 


DICK  & FITZGERALD’S  LIS? 


The  Everlasting  Fortune-Teller, 

and  Magnetic  Dream  Book,  price  $0  25 
Containing  the  science  of  foretell- 
ing events  by  the  Signs  of  the  Zodiac 
Lists  of  Lucky  and  Unlucky  Days, 
with  Presages  drawn  therefrom;  the 
science  of  Foretelling  Events  by  cards, 
dice,  dominoes,  &c. ; the  art  of  Fore- 
telling Future  Events  by  charms,  spells 
and  incantations,  to  be  resorted  to  at 
certain  seasons  of  the  year,  by  which 
dreams,  tokens,  and  other  insights  into 
futurity  may  be  obtained,  but  more 
particularly  with  regard  to  Courtship 
and  Marriage. 

How  to  Dress 

taining  hints  on 
colors,  the  theory 
complexion,  shape  or  height,  &c. 
This  little  volume  forms  a most  suit- 
able companion  for  the  toilet  table ; 
and  every  lady  and  gentleman  should 
possess  a copy.  - - - price 


Blunders  in  Behavior  Correct. 

Price  $( 

A concise  code  of  deportment  for 
both  sexes. — “It  will  polish  and  refine 
either  sex,  and  is  Chesterfield  super- 
seded.”— Home  Companion. 

Five  Hundred  French  Phrases. 

Adapted  for  those  who  aspire  to 

speak  and  write  French  correctly. 

price 

The  phrases  here  given  are  selected 
for  their  general  usefulness,  and  will 
greatly  assist  the  learner  in  his  first 
efforts  to  converse  in  French.  Nobody 
should  be  without  a copy  of  this  useful 


13 


13 


on  in  our 

Daily  Food  and  Drink.  - price 
A complete  analysis  of  the  frauds 
and  deceptions  practiced  upon  articles 
of  consumption,  by  storekeepers  and 
manufacturers;  with  full  directions  to 
Aatar-t  carmine  from  spurious,  by  sim- 


13 


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